AN  ACCIDENTAL  ROMANCE 
>K  <9£  AND  OTHER  STORIES 


T4I.IF.  T. 


Jin  Accidental  Romance, 
and  Other  Stories 


Ulilliam  Sidney  Rossiter 


Hew  Vork 

Che  Republic  Press 

u  Lafayette  Place 

1$95 


Copyriflbt,  IMS 
By  0.  $.  RotJiter 


-t — f 


2132317 


Preface 

*  I  'HERE  are  no  red  lights  in  the  pages 
A  which  follow — no  literary  rockets,  no 
cattails  dipped  in  kerosene  and  lighted  "to 
mark  the  path  of  progress,"  no  morals 
pointed,  no  isms  illumined. 

This  little  book  has  only  one  excuse  for 
existence.  The  stories  it  contains  were  writ- 
ten to  divert  the  author's  thoughts  from 
pressing  daily  cares,  for  the  habit  of  the 
pen,  once  acquired  in  newspaper  work,  never 
can  be  entirely  overcome. 

If,  by  passing  these  sketches  along,  he 
can  please  or  divert  some  other  member  of 
the  toiling,  anxious  human  family,  he  is 
content.  Possibly  some  more  pretentious 
brother  who  points  a  moral  or  lights  an 
ism,  does  not  accomplish  even  as  much. 
Who  knows  ? 


Contents 

fln  Accidental  Romance 9 

E  Common  Seme  Cupid      ....  57 

the  Auction  Bottle 100 

fln  Unauthcnticatcd  Serpent         •      •      •  12$ 

the  twice  told  Cite  of  tbonuu  Dart    •      •  w 


Jin  flccidcmai  Romance. 

The  American  Association  for  the  Advance- 
ment of  Invention  had  held  its  annual  meeting 
in  Denver.  The  sessions  lasted  three  days,  and 
they  had  beon  largely  attended  and  marked  by 
great  enthusiasm  and  many  brilliant  and  schol- 
arly addresses.  After  the  election  of  officers 
and  final  adjournment  a  large  number  of  the 
members  decided  to  make  a  trip  to  Pike's  Peak 
before  separating.  I  hailed  this  excursion  as 
a  welcome  respite  from  official  cares,  for  I  was 
third  vice-president  of  the  association  (to  which 
office  I  had  just  been  re-elected),  and  I  had  been 
occupied  constantly  with  Important  official 
duties  during  the  sessions.  It  was,  therefore, 
with  a  delightful  sense  of  freedom  that  I  joined 
my  fellow-members  in  making  up  the  jolliest 
party,  I  am  Inclined  to  believe,  that  ever  ascend- 
ed Colorado's  famous  mountain.  Of  course  I  did 
not  realize  how  deeply  that  brief  trip  would 


10 

affect  all  my  future  life;  but  then,  nobody  ever 
does  realize.  The  realizing  business  is  all 
transacted  in  retrospection. 

We  had  reached  the  summit,  and  I  was  stand- 
ing with  a  group  of  friends  looking  off  on  that 
stupendous  panorama  of  lake  and  mountain, 
when  Major  D.  Pringle  Whitehouse,  of  Jersey 
City,  a  former  corresponding  secretary  of  the 
association,  and  widely  known  as  the  inventor 
of  an  improved  automatic  cork  ejector,  tapped 
me  on  the  shoulder. 

"You're  going  directly  East,  aren't  you,  Dunk- 
ley?"  he  inquired. 

"I  expect  to,"  I  replied. 

"Do  me  a  big  favor,  won't  you?  Take  my 
umbrella  back  with  you,  and  keep  it  till  I  call 
for  it.  I've  just  decided  to  'do*  California  with 
Reed  and  MacSimmons.  Can't  rustle  around 
the  land  of  sunshine  with  a  family  umbrella, 
you  know.  Give  me  away  completely.  Haven't 
time  to  pack  it  and  hunt  up  an  express  office. 
Haven't  even  time  to  ship  it.  Help  me  out, 
won't  you,  my  boy?" 

I  murmured  something  about  a  willingness  to 
oblige,  which/ 1  was  far  from  feeling. 

"I  knew  you  would,"  he  continued.  "Don't 
let  it  bother  you,  but  don't  lose  it,  whatever  you 
do — that  umbrella,  sir,  was  my  only  inheritance 
from  my  Great  Uncle  Williams.  It's  thirty-four 
years  old  if  it's  a  day.  I  should  be  heartbroken 


11 

if  I  lost  it,  Dunkley,  so  hang  on  to  it  tightly. 
Great  mark  of  esteem,  in  fact,  to  select  you  to 
care  for  it.  So  long.  See  you  in  New  York." 

So  saying,  he  pressed  into  my  reluctant  hand 
a  huge  black  silk  umbrella,  with  a  carved  ivory 
handle  representing  a  bunch  of  grapes  and  two 
cupids  rampant,  nodded  reassuringly,  and  was 
gone. 

This  development  was  as  sudden  as  it  was 
unwelcome.  I  had  come  upon  the  excursion  as 
a  relief  from  official  cares,  and  here  I  stood  on 
the  snowclad  summit  of  Pike's  Peak,  Colorado, 
looking  off  upon  the  headwaters  of  four  great 
rivers,  upon  mountain,  lake  and  forest,  and 
Colorado  lying  like  a  map  below,  clasping  "Great 
Uncle  Williams's"  family  umbrella,  and  charged 
with  its  safe  conduct  for  a  couple  of  thousand 
miles. 

I  think  I  could  have  claimed  reasonably  to  be 
as  kindly  and  accommodating  as  the  average 
bachelor  of  thirty-seven  years.  I  ought  to  have 
been.  I  had  a  good  disposition,  was  sound  of 
mind  and  body,  and  had  had  a  prosperous  and 
rather  uneventful  career,  but  I  abhorred  favors 
and  commissions.  I  do  not  refer  to  cash  com- 
missions; doubtless  they  are  different.  My  ex- 
perience with  that  sort  is  limited.  The  antipathy 
I  felt  to  other  people's  errands,  however,  dated, 
I  believe,  from  a  distressing  experience  in  my 
childhood,  which  was  deeply  impressed  upon  me, 


12 

both  internally  and  externally.  Our  nextdoor 
neighbor,  an  elderly  and  vastly  particular 
spinster,  named  Wegan,  had  commissioned  me 
to  mail  a  letter  for  her,  which,  boylike,  I  com- 
pletely forgot  to  do,  and  when  she  asked  me,  two 
weeks  later,  what  I  had  done  with  that  letter,  I 
searched  in  every  pocket  and  solemnly  declared 
I  had  mailed  it;  as,  indeed,  I  thought  I  must 
have  done.  A  month  afterward  I  discovered 
the  letter  in  another  jacket,  and  I  still  recall  the 
horror  I  experienced  upon  finding  it.  There 
was  but  one  thing  to  do.  I  mailed  it,  and  waited 
for  the  consequences  with  many  misgivings. 
Two  days  passed  and  I  breathed  easier,  but  the 
third  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  hammering 
in  our  neighbor's  backyard.  I  opened  the  win- 
dow cautiously,  and  saw  two  carpenters  at  work 
and  a  third  man  unloading  lumber.  On  the  back 
porch  stood  old  Miss  Wegan,  in  a  red  wrapper 
and  curl  papers,  and  a  halo  of  excitement. 

"Go  away,  men,"  she  called. 

The  carpenters  looked  a  good  deal  surprised. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  one  of  them,  reassuringly. 

"What's  all  right?" 

"About  the  henhouse." 

"What  henhouse?" 

"Old  Miss  Wegan's." 

"Old  Miss  Wegan  don't  want  any  henhouse." 

"Yes  she  does." 

"No  she  don't." 


13 

"Mr.  Gibbons  had  a  letter  from  her  ordering 
a  henhouse  put  up  Immediately,  and  we're  here 
doin'  it." 

"He  never  got  the  letter,"  said  the  owner  of 
the  curl  papers,  emphatically. 

"Yes,  he  did.  He  says  to  tell  you  he  can't  get 
the  corrugated  roosts  till  next  week." 

"I  don't  want  any  roosts." 

"And  the  cupola  is  to  have  a  weather-vane 
on  it." 

"I  don't  want  any  cupola,"  repeated  Miss 
Wegan,  desperately.  "I  don't  want  any  hen- 
house at  all.  I  ordered  one  two  months  ago, 
but  the  letter  was  lost  in  the  mail,  and  it  got  so 
late  I  sold  my  chickens.  That's  the  end  of  it. 
Now,  go  away,  all  of  you,"  she  added  in  no 
pleasant  tones. 

"Can't  ma'am;  we've  come  to  build  a  henhouse, 
and  we're  goin'  to.  The  order  only  came  yes- 
terday, but  the  lumber's  cut  a'ready." 

I  felt  a  cold  chill  run  down  my  youthful  spine. 

"Yesterday?"  repeated  Miss  Wegan  in  sur- 
prise. "It's  that  horrid,  careless  Dunkley  boy," 
she  said.  "He  shall  hear  of  this." 

I  had  heard  of  it  already.  I  closed  the  win- 
dow, jumped  into  my  clothes  and  hurried  down- 
stairs. 

"Ma,"  I  said,  "may  I  spend  the  day  down  at 
the  Centre?' 

It  was  a   useless  device.    It   merely  delayed 


14 

the  reckoning.  The  case  in  hand,  however,  did 
not  call  for  reminiscence,  or  a  dissertation  on 
predilections  or  antipathies.  Here  I  was  on 
Pike's  Peak  (fact  one),  constituted  keeper  and 
custodian  of  Great  Uncle  Williams's  umbrella, 
and  the  umbrella  was  at  that  moment  burdening 
me  (fact  two.) 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  an  imposition?"  I  ex- 
claimed, irritably,  to  Randall,  who  was  next  to 
me.  "The  man  concludes  to  go  to  California;  he 
doesn't  want  to  bother  with  his  unsightly  old 
umbrella,  so  he  shoves  it  into  the  hands  of  the 
first  man  his  eyes!  light  upon,  and  says:  'There, 
take  that  to  New  York  for  me,  and  mind  you 
don't  lose  it.'  Such  unlimited  cheek,"  I  added, 
wrathfully,  "ought  to  be  converted  into  horse- 
power." 

"It's  a  shame,"  said  Randall,  sympathetically. 
"You've  had  enough  to  do  to  deserve  a  rest. 
Let  me  have  that  umbrella,  and  when  I  get  back 
to  Denver  I'll  pack  it  in  with  some  belongings 
of  mine,  and  ship  it  East  without  worrying  any- 
body." 

I  protested  that  I  had  better  shoulder  the 
trouble  myself,  and  that  I  certainly  did  not 
wish  to  take  my  turn  in  imposing  on  a  friend 
—but  Randall  was  firm.  He  declared  that  I 
had  done  my  share,  and  by  relieving  me  he 
could  aid  in  a  small  way  the  cause  of  the  Ameri- 
can Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Inven- 


15 

tion,  which  we  all  had  so  deeply  at  heart.  He 
was  so  much  in  earnest  that  I  yielded,  and 
turned  over  to  him  with  many  apologies  the 
Major's  ancestral  umbrella,  adorned  with  its 
ugly  cupids,  cautioning  him  to  send  it  around  to 
my  office  in  New  York  at  his  convenience,  and 
once  more  devoted  myself  to  the  full  enjoyment 
of  the  trip. 

On  returning  to  Denver  I  started  East  with 
as  little  delay  as  possible,  and  all  thought  of  the 
Major's  umbrella  had  faded  completely  from  my 
mind,  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact  that  I  did  not 
again  see  Randall,  as  the  members  scattered 
immediately  after  the  excursion.  Five  weeks 
elapsed— exceedingly  busy  ones  for  me,  as  my 
firm  was  testing  a  new  and  remarkable  inven- 
tion that  had  been  described  at  the  Denver  meet- 
ing, and  I  was  deeply  concerned  in  the  results. 
Looking  up  from  my  desk  one  afternoon  in 
August  I  saw  the  familiar  form  of  Major  D. 
Pringle  Whitehouse  in  the  doorway.  A  vague 
feeling  came  over  me  that  there  was  some  rea- 
son why  I  did  not  want  to  see  Whitehouse,  but 
I  could  not  recall  what  it  was,  and  I  greeted  him 
cordially. 

"We  had  a  great  meeting,  didn't  we,  Dunk- 
ley?"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  and  took  the 
chair  I  proffered  him.  "I  suppose  I  am  about 
the  last  straggler  to  get  back,"  he  added. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  I  asked. 


16 

"Why,  to  California,"  he  said,  looking  sur- 
prised; "you  know  I  told  you  when  we  were 
up  on  Pike's  Peak  that  I  was  going  to  California 
with  Reed  and  MacSimmons.  I  was  sorry 
enough  afterward  that  I  left  my  umbrella  be- 
hind, for  it  seemed  as  though  it  rained  every 
day  till  we  got  to  'Frisco." 

It  all  flashed  over  me.  The  Major  had  turned 
his  umbrella  over  to  me  up  on  the  Peak,  and 
now  he  had  come  to  demand  his  own.  What 
should  I  do?  I  had  given  it  to  that  confounded 
Randall;  he  had  not  sent  the  umbrella  back  to 
me,  and  the  day  before  I  had  heard  that  there 
was  sickness  in  his  family  and  that  he  had  gone 
to  the  Catskills  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  Doubtless 
he  had  brought  the  Major's  umbrella  East  with 
him  in  a  packing-case  and  had  not  opened  it 
(for  if  he  had,  the  umbrella  would  have  reached 
me.)  Randall  lived  in  New  Jersey,  and  probably 
at  that  very  moment  Great  Uncle  What's-His- 
Name's  umbrella  was  lying  boxed  up  in  a  case 
in  the  cellar  of  Randall's  house,  somewhere  in 
Brick  Church  or  All  the  Oranges.  In  any  event, 
I  must  gain  time,  so  I  asked  the  Major  about 
California  in  general.  He  talked  twenty  min- 
utes, and  when  he  showed  symptoms  of  verbal 
drouth  I  inquired  about  a  new  invention  for 
watering  the  streets  of  San  Diego.  That  was 
good  for  ten  minutes— during  which  I  concluded 
I  had  better  own  up,  for  the  fact  must  come  out 


17 

ultimately,  anyway;  so  I  asked  no  further  ques- 
tions, and  at  length  the  Major  veered  around 
to  Pike's  Peak  again. 

'Tve  often  thought  I  imposed  on  you  up  there," 
he  said. 

"Not  at  all,  Major,"  I  answered,  briskly. 

"So  I  dropped  in  as  soon  as  I  got  back  to 
apologize  and  relieve  you  of  your  charge." 

"Hasn't  bothered  me  a  bit,"  I  said,  "for  I 
haven't  got  it  down  here." 

"Not  lost?"  ejaculated  the  Major. 

"Oh,  no.  Randall  packed  it  with  some  things 
of  his  own,  and  brought  it  back  from  Denver 
with  him.  He  has  forgotten  to  send  it  over,  but 
if  you  had  only  dropped  me  a  line  before  you 
came  in  I  would  have  had  it  here  for  you." 

The  Major  stroked  his  beard,  which  ran  in 
hairy  undulations  down  to  his  lowest  waistcoat 
button,  and  looked  solicitous. 

"I  don't  know  about  Randall,"  he  said,  doubt- 
fully. "He's  flighty.  Shouldn't  have  trusted 
him  myself.  Thought  I  knew  you,  and  what  you 
said  could  be  relied  on." 

I  found  myself  growing  uncomfortable. 

"Suppose,"  I  thought,  "just  suppose,  anything 
should  have  happened  to  that  umbrella,  how 
could  I  face  my  hirsute  friend?" 

Oh,  it's  all  right,"  I  said,  cheerily.  "Randall's 
a  first-rate  fellow,  and  as  he  had  some  traps  to 
bring  East,  that  umbrella  came  with  them,  and' 
is  over  at  his  house  now,  I  suppose." 


18 

"Traps?"  inquired  Major  Whitehouse,  with 
some  interest.  "What  kind  of  traps?" 

"Household  stuff  and  all  that.  You  know  he 
once  lived  in  Denver." 

"Thought  you  meant  rat  traps,"  said  the 
Major,  the  interest  fading  out.  "I  have  in- 
vented a  pneumatic  trap,  and  I  am  working  up 
a  paper  to  read  at  the  next  annual  meeting  of 
our  association,  upon  The  Trap  in  All  ages.' 
I  am  tracing  the  subject  from  the  old  wooden 
skewers  of  the  ancients  down  to  the  latest 
thing  in  the  line,  my  pneumatic  trap.  Fasci- 
nating subject,  sir,  fascinating."  The  Major 
rose  to  go. 

"Now,  Dunkley,"  he  said,  "don't  forget  that 
umbrella,  my  boy.  It  belonged  to  my  Great 
Uncle  Williams,  and  was  all  he  left  out  of  an 
ample  estate.  I  wouldn't  lose  it  for  a  farm — 
for  several  large  farms." 

Saying  which,  Major  D.  Pringle  Whitehouse 
departed,  to  my  infinite  relief.  The  afternoon 
was  young  and  full  of  possibilities  when  he 
entered.  It  was  wrecked  and  broken  and  frag- 
mentary when  he  left.  Before  I  had  closed  my 
desk  that  evening^  however1,  I  ;had  written 
this  note: 

My  Dear  Randall: — 

The  whiskered  form  of  D.  Pringle  White- 
house  loomed  up  this  afternoon  in  my  office. 
He  demanded  his  Great  Uncle's  umbrella,  which 


19 

I  had  completely  forgotten.  You  recollect  he 
shoved  it  into  my  hands  up  on  Pike's  Peak  last 
month,  and  asked  me  to  be  a  father  to  it  while 
he  was  in  California.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it 
from  that  day  to  this,  but  it  all  came  back 
to  me,  and  I  told  him  you  had  kindly  brought 
it  back  to  New  York  in  a  packing  case  you 
were  conveying  home,  and  that  doubtless  at 
that  very  historic  moment,  Great  Uncle  Will- 
iams's  umbrella  lay  in  a  box  over  in  Brick 
Church  or  All  the  Oranges.  This  box  business 
is  a  delicate  emulation  of  the  pious  example 
set  by  Great  Uncle  Williams  himself,  which  I 
should  like  to  see  encouraged,  for  he  has  oc- 
cupied a  box  for  twenty-nine  years,  and  ap- 
parently "stays  put."  However,  the  Major 
must  have  his  umbrella.  He  was  pleasant  but 
persistent,  so  I  beg  of  you  if  the  family  is  away 
and  the  house  shut,  to  hie  you  to  Brick  Church, 
or  Orange  Centre,  or  Orange  Phosphate,  and 
produce  that  umbrella.  Don't  take  any  chances 
on  the  packing  case.  Buy  a  three-cent  hammer 
and  a  two-cent  chisel  (stamps  inclosed)  of  a 
Vesey  street  fakir,  on  the  way,  and  don't  re- 
turn without  those  cupids  rampant.  I  am 
really  in  earnest,  though  this  may  not  sound  so. 
Whitehouse  will  make  trouble  if  he  does  not 
get  his  umbrella  very  soon.  So  please  give  it 
attention.  Yours  faithfully, 

HUNTINGTON    DUNKLEY. 

Two  days  later  I  received  this  reply: 


INVENTORS  EXPERIMENT  COMPANY, 

(Pud  Up  C»p«t»l,  J50.000,) 

INVENTIONS  TESTED.  BRIEFS  PREPARED. 

j.  Bloomy      Bullheimer  Building,  217  Broadway, 

K.  RAHDALL,  _  » 

™""dM"a8"  NEW  YORK, 


21 

I  read  Randall's  letter  through  carefully,  then 
I  called  the  office  boy,  who  sits  in  the  outer 
office,  and  guards  the  doors  marked  "Private." 

"William,"  I  said  solemnly,  "do  you  know 
Major  D.  Pringle  Whitehouse  when  you  see 
him?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"William,  if  Major  Whitehouse  comes  in  and 
asks  for  me,  remember  that  I  am  now  think- 
ing of  going  to  Savannah  for  a  month,  and 
would  be  gone  by  the  time  he  gets  here.  Do 
you  hear?" 

William  swallowed  a  couple  of  times,  and 
said: 

"Yes,  sir." 

"ATI ft,  William." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"If  Major  Whitehouse  should  get  in  while  1 
am  here  and  actually  see  me  it  won't  be  any 
use  for  you  to  come  to  work  the  next  morn- 
ing. That's  alL" 

William  retired.  I  felt  safe  for  the  moment, 
but  I  knew  my  device  was  a  weak  one.  I 
anathematized  the  careless  and  thoughtless  Ran- 
dall, and  abused  myself  for  ever  relinquishing 
the  umbrella.  Upon  rereading  Randall's  let- 
ter, my  anxiety  increased  materially.  "Couldn't 
recall  which  one  of  our  members."  We  had 
3,200  in  all,  of  whom  918  had  attended  the 
Denver  meeting.  Excluding  the  Major,  Ran- 


22 

dall  and  myself,  there  were  915  possibilities. 
Would  it  be  necessary  to  circularize  all,  and  even 
if  I  did,  would  that  ghostly  umbrella  ever 
turn  up?  I  doubted  it.  The  members  of  the 
American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Invention,  were,  of  course,  all  honorable  men, 
but  the  umbrella  code  of  honor  seems  to  have 
receded  before  advancing  civilization. 

I  once  knew  a  large,  stout  man  with  $10,000 
and  a  scheme.  He  started  an  umbrella  in- 
surance company.  The  first  month  he  sent  out 
beautiful  lithographed  certificates.  The  second 
month  he  sent  out  checks,  and  the  third  month 
he  sent  out  a  notice  of  assignment.  He  was 
a  good  deal  smaller  that  month  in  every  way, 
for  he  had  dropped  $10,000  and  twenty-four 
pounds  of  meat. 

I  began  to  wonder  what  I  would  drop,  and 
concluded  I  had  better  write  Cobb  immediately. 
That  evening  I  posted  this  letter: 

Thomas   P.   Cobb,   Esq.,   Broadway,   Pittsburg, 

Penn. 

Dear  Mr.  Cobb:  Did  you  take  in  the  Pike 
Peak's  excursion  from  the  Denver  meeting  of 
our  association?  While  up  there  Major  White- 
house  placed  a  valuable  umbrella  with  an  ivory 
handle  (bunch  of  grapes  and  cupids  rampant) 
in  my  hands  to  bring  back  to  New  York.  I 
turned  it  over  to  Randall,  and  he  says  he  gave 
it  to  you.  If  you  have  it,  please  send  it  imme- 
diately at  my  expense  to  address  above.  Yours 
truly,  HUNTINGTON  DUNKLEY. 


23 

This  seemed  all  I  could  do  for  the  time  being, 
but  the  joy  had  gone  out  of  life.  Every  time 
the  outer  door  opened,  I  stopped  work  and 
listened,  fearing  to  hear  William's  monotonous 
voice  explaining  that  I  was  in  Savannah.  About 
2  o'clock  I  went  out  for  a  frugal  lunch,  which 
for  purposes  of  safety  I  took  at  a  humble  re- 
sort on  a  side  street,  but  my  device  was  my 
undoing,  for  turning  a  corner  on  the  way  back 
I  actually  ran  into  the  ample  shape  and  flow- 
ing beard  of  Major  D.  Pringle  Whitehouse. 

"Major,"!  said  with  a  presence  of  mind  that 
caused  me  great  self-admiration  afterward, 
"Haven't  heard  a  word  about  the  umbrella  yet. 
Am  expecting  to  hear  any  day."  The  Major 
looked  much  disappointed. 

"I  am  sorry  it  has  not  come,"  he  said.  "When 
had  I  better  call  again?" 

"Oh,  drop  in  late  in  the  week,"  I  replied,  try- 
ing to  look  genial;  then  pleading  business  I 
hurried  on,  leaving  the  Major  standing  in  the 
middle  of  Nassau  street.  The  thing  was  really 
getting  serious.  So  much  so  that  it  interfered 
with  my  office  duties,  and  even  invaded  my 
sleep.  That  night  was  the  third  one  to  be 
troubled  by  dreams  of  Great  Uncle  Williams's 
only  bequest. 

Two  days  afterward  as  I  was  working  at  some 
complicated  and  exceedingly  difficult  calcula- 
tions, I  heard  a  familiar  voice  in  the  outer 
office  asking  for  me. 


34 

"Not  in,  sir,"  said  William. 

"Very  well,  I'll  wait." 

"No  use,  sir,  he's  out  of  town." 

"Is  that  so,  where?" 

"Savannah,  Georgia,  sir." 

I  shivered. 

"Hey?' 

"Savannah,  sir." 

"When'd  he  go?" 

"Tuesday  morning,  sir." 

"Tuesday,  hey?" 

"Yes,  sir;  9  o'clock  train,  Pennsylvania  road. 
Carried  his  satchel  to  the  ferry  myself,  sir.  Saw 
him  off." 

I  shivered  again.  This  time  it  was  a  real 
shiver.  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  William  of 
my  accidental  meeting  with  the  Major,  and 
here  he  was  dressing  up  his  lie  with  unneces- 
sary and  hideous  details.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence  in  the  outer  office,  and  then 
the  Major  said: 

"Boy,  you  are  lying.  I  saw  Mr.  Dunkley 
Tuesday  afternoon  on  Nassau  street  myself." 

This  would  never  do.  It  was  bad  enough 
to  merely  state  untruthful  absence,  but  while 
William's  street  gamin  wit  would  doubtless 
bring  him  through,  the  lie  would  be  colossal 
and  variegated  before  the  Major  left.  Before 
he  could  reply,  I  flung  my  door  open  and 
looked  out 

"Ah,   Major,"   I  said  cordially,   "glad  to  see 


25 

you.  I  heard  William  say  I  had  gone  to  Sa- 
vannah. I  told  him  I  was  likely  to  go,  hut 
have  been  detained.  Come  in  and  sit  down, 
Major." 

Major  Whitehouse  cast  a  wrathful  glance  at 
the  tranquil  William  and  strode  in.  His  man- 
ner lacked  its  whilom  cordiality. 

"Any  news  for  me?"  he  inquired. 

"None  at  all.  How  does  the  'evolution  of 
the  trap'  progress,  Major?" 

"Have  you  heard  from  Randall?"  he  inquired, 
ignoring  my  feeble  effort  to  change  the  theme. 

"Yes;  I  had  a  brief  note.  He  is  up  in  the 
Catskills,  and  I  presume  nothing  can  be  done 
till  he  gets  back." 

"This  is  exceedingly  disappointing  to  me, 
Mr.  Dunkley,"  said  the  Major,  with  much  dig- 
nity, looking  sharply  about  my  office,  as  though 
his  Great  Uncle's  umbrella  might  appear  at  any 
moment  from  any  direction. 

"I  fully  expected  some  definite  word  about 
my  umbrella  to-day,  I  trust  I  have  made  plain 
how  highly  I  value  it.  That  umbrella,  sir,  is 
thirty-nine  years  old.  It  was  the  only  bequest 
of  my  Great  Uncle  Williams  to  me.  He  died  in 
1889.  I  have  carried  it  constantly  since,  and 
I  don't  propose,  sir,  to  lose  it  now." 

"Major  Whitehouse,"  I  said,  getting  angry  at 
last,  "I  am  heartily  sick  of  this  umbrella  busi- 
ness." 

"So  am  I,  sir,"  he  responded. 


26 

"Let  me  get  you  a  new  umbrella." 

"I   don't    want    it." 

"Silver  head." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

"Gold  head." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

"I'll  have  an  umbrella  made  for  you,"  I  ex- 
claimed, desperately,  "with  ivory  cupids  ram- 
pant, couchant,  passant,  from  handle  to  fer- 
rule." 

"I  don't  want  it,"  shouted  the  Major  ex- 
citedly. 

"I'll  give  you  an  umbrella  annuity.  A  new 
one  annually  or  semi-annually,"  I  urged. 

"Mr.  Dunkley,  you  trifle,  sir,"  said  the  Major, 
severely.  "I  am  able  to  buy  umbrellas  my- 
self. For  reasons  I  have  stated  I  wish  my  own 
umbrella,  the  one  I  left  in  your  charge.  The 
matter  may  rest  for  a  week  or  ten  days.  When 
I  call  again,  sir,  I  expect  you  to  have  my 
umbrella." 

Without  a  goodby  or  goodday  the  Major 
stalked  out.  I  tried  to  resume  work,  but  that 
confounded  umbrella  seemed  to  pervade  and 
confuse  everything  I  touched.  At  length  I 
left  the  office  and  sought  relief  at  my  club. 
The  next  three  days  were  made  uncomfortable 
by  no  tidings  from  Cobb,  but  on  Monday  upon 
reaching  my  desk  I  found  an  envelope  marked 
Pittsburg,  and  I  opened  it  with  feverish  haste. 
Here  is  the  letter: 


« 

* 


12 


O    0 

x  z 
H  5 


28 

I  confess  to  a  feeling  of  intense  disappoint- 
ment. Somehow  I  had  really  expected  results 
from  Cobb,  and  it  began  to  look  as  though  a 
circular  to  the  whole  914  remaining  would  be 
necessary.  I  did  write.  I  wrote  immediately. 

My  Dear  Hotchkiss: — 

Please  tell  me  whether  you  brought  back  from 
Denver  for  Randall,  or  any  one  else,  a  big, 
black  silk  umbrella,  with  an  ivory  handle, 
carved  to  represent  a  bunch  of  grapes  and  two 
cupids  rampant.  If  so,  I  want  it  quick.  I  am  in 
a  peck  of  trouble  over  this  umbrella.  While 
up  on  Pike's  Peak  with  the  association  ex- 
cursion last  month  Major  Whitehouse,  of  Jer- 
sey City,  decided  to  make  a  hasty  trip  to  Cali- 
fornia, and,  finding  his  ancestral  umbrella 
would  be  in  the  way,  he  pitched  on  me  to  bring 
it  East,  and  then  departed.  Of  course  I  could 
not  refuse,  but  I  made  some  remarks  about  it 
later,  which  Randall  heard,  and  he  kindly  offered 
to  assume  my  burden,  so  I  turned  the  umbrella 
over  to  him.  Randall  was  called  to  Utah  on 
business,  and  sent  the  Major's  unwelcome  prop- 
erty East  by  some  one  else.  He  thought  it  was 
T.  P.  Cobb,  of  Pittsburg.  Cobb  thinks  it  was 
you.  If  you  have  that  umbrella  for  goodness' 
sake  send  it.  The  Major  haunts  me.  Every 
beard  I  see  gives  me  a  shock.  Send  the  um- 
brella by  express,  special  delivery,  special  mes- 
senger, but  get  it  here.  Yours  sincerely, 

HUNTINGDON    DUNKLEY. 

Two  more  apprehensive  days  elapsed,  and 
Hotchkiss's  reply  was  before  me.  It  read: 


MARCUS   P.   HOTCHKISS, 

GENERAL   CONNECTICUT  AGENT 

THE  NEW  YORK  CHEMICAL  CONTRIVANCE  Co., 

(ESTABLISHED,     1776.) 


$  lOAfuiJtZ 

•t*/-"*-     Wft'«jucr*4£.  4,     ***»<-£lu02$ 

^a^^o^^C  tv^id*,     vk*J±d*c.  -3  ctt**.  olc£  ^^  %*+*****-  M~ 

3  **^wf    ^CL  K*~clAQl  Le-  &  4o  &^XA>  *~c(  j 


a^    ffS  '  £+ 

**si,  &»£  z^<^c 

«,     *+*~J!^lMa 

,v 
•V< 


a 

V 


30 

I   laid    down  the  letter  and    groaned   aloud. 
How  long  was  this  to  continue?    Mechanically 
I  reached  for  paper  and  wrote: 
Oliver  Penfleld,  Esq.,  Calvert  street,  Baltimore, 
Md. 

Dear  Mr.  Penfield:  Have  you  in  your  posses- 
sion a  large,  black  silk  umbrella  with  ivory 
handle  carved  to  represent  two  cupids  rampant, 
and  a  bunch  of  grapes?  If  so,  it  is  the  one 
placed  in  my  care  by  Major  Whitehouse,  of 
Jersey  City,  while  we  were  on  the  Pike's  Peak 
excursion.  He  wished  me  to  bring  it  East  for 
him,  and  I  turned  it  over  to  Randall.  Randall 
was  called  to  Utah,  and  says  he  gave  it  to  Cobb. 
Cobb  denies  all  knowledge  of  it  and  suggested 
Hotchkiss.  Hotchkiss  says  he  never  had  it  him- 
self, but  thinks  he  remembers  it  was  given  in 
your  charge.  If  so,  please  send  the  umbrella 
to  me  at  your  earliest  convenience,  at  my  ex- 
pense, and  wire  me  on  receiving  this  whether 
you  have  it.  Yours  truly, 

HUNTINGTON  DUNKLEY. 

I  sealed  the  letter  and  mailed  it,  but  the  situ- 
ation was  evidently  growing  worse.  Major 
Whi tehouse  was  staved  off  by  talking  of  Randall's 
absence.  That  would  not  serve  much  longer. 
The  Major's  visits  would  be  resumed  soon,  and 
I  could  not  stand  many  more  of  them.  Long  be- 
fore the  913  remaining  names  had  been  can- 
vassed, I  would  be  lodged  in  a  padded  cell 
somewhere,  and  labelled  "H.  Dunkley,  violent." 
The  thing  was  going  to  my  head  already.  Only 
the  previous  afternoon,  in  ordering  some  pig 


31 

iron  for  our  works  at  Seacaucus,  I  found  myself 
actually  beginning  the  letter  to  Great  Uncle 
Williams.  If  there  was  only  some  way  to  ap- 
pease the  Major,  but,  alas!  there  was  only  one 
umbrella  on  earth  for  the  Implacable  White- 
house,  of  Jersey  City,  and  that  was  Great  Uncle 
Williams's  bequest.  Doubtless  I  was  the  pict- 
ure of  despair  as  I  sat  leaning  on  my  desk, 
when  our  senior  partner  came  into  my  office. 

"You  don't  look  well,  Dunkley,"  he  said, 
kindly. 

"I  am  not  well,"  I  replied. 

"Then  take  a  few  days  off,"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
was  just  going  to  speak  to  you  about  that 
Twohig  matter  in  Portland.  That's  just  the 
thing  for  you.  Go  up  to  Maine  yourself,  and 
settle  it.  The  change  will  do  you  good." 

I  thanked  him  heartily.  His  suggestion  came 
like  a  ray  of  hop  3.  After  further  consultation 
I  decided  to  spend  a  week  in  Maine,  and  the 
next  morning  found  me  on  the  eastbound  train. 
I  walked  through  every  car  to  make  sure  my 
evil  genius  was  not  on  board,  and  sank  into 
a  seat  as  the  train  started,  with  a  sense  of  per- 
fect security  and  intense  relief.  The  trip  was 
one  of  the  most  delightful  I  have  ever  known. 
By  contrast  with  the  two  previous  weeks  I 
was  care  free.  I  read,  smoked.  I  watched  the 
landscape,  and  my  fellow-passengers  by  turns. 
While  lazily  observing  the  stir  of  arrivals  and 


32 

departures  at  Springfield,  I  noticed  that  the  occu- 
pant of  the  seat  directly  across  the  aisle  from  me 
was  an  exceedingly  pretty  girl,  evidently  trav- 
elling alone.     Sho  was  not  a  new  arrival  in 
the  car,  for  her  ticket  had  been  punched  and 
stuck  in  the  seat  in  front  of  her.    She  was  be- 
comingly attired  in  the  inevitable  shirt  waist, 
a  dark  dress  of  some  rough  cloth,  sailor  hat  and 
red  belt.    A  wealth  of  light  brown  hair,  becom- 
ingly arranged,  large  brown  eyes  and  an  ex- 
quisite complexion,  made  up  an  ideal  picture 
of  a  dainty  and  independent  American  girl,  for 
the  whole  personality  was  pervaded  by  an  air 
of  self-possession  and  independence.    The  seat 
beside  her  was  occupied  by  a  handsome  alligator 
skin  satchel,   and  a  lunchbox  of  generous  di- 
mensions.   A  parasol  or  umbrella,  I  could  not 
see  which,  stood  in  the  corner  and  completed 
her  travelling  equipment.    I  must  confess  that 
my  opposite  neighbor  was  an  exceedingly  in- 
teresting study,  and  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to 
avoid     staring,   I   found   my     eyes   wandering 
across  the  aisle  at  frequent  intervals.    She  was 
occupied  with  a  magazine,  but  twice  her  eyes 
met  mine,  and  in  a  vague  agreeable  way  I  felt 
that  perhaps  she  was  not  averse  to  an  occasional 
glance  from  my  side  of  the  car,  and  particularly 
so  when  upon  turning  quickly  around  a  few 
moments  later,  I  discovered  she  had  been  in- 
specting me  critically,  a  fact  which  threw  both 
of  us  into  some  confusion. 


"Here,  Dunkley,"  I  said  to  myself,  "you're  too 
kittenish.  An  old  bachelor  making  eyes  is  dread- 
ful," and  by  way  of  emphasizing  this  mental 
judgment  I  decided  on  a  trip  to  the  smoker,  when 
something  happened  that  changed  the  whole 
situation.  A  sudden  jarring  of  the  car  threw 
my  fair  neighbor's  umbrella  to  the  floor.  She 
regained  it,  and  stood  it  up  directly  in  my 
line  of  vision.  I  saw  that  it  was  not  a  parasol, 
but  an  umbrella  and  a  tall  one.  Moreover,  it 
had  an  ivory  handle  which  was  strangely  fa- 
miliar. There  seemed  to  be  a  bunch  of  grapes 

and  two 1  put  my  hands  to  my  eyes.    Good 

heavens!  Was  the  asylum  closing  in  on  me? 
My  horrible  error  in  directing  the  pig  iron  order 
to  Uncle  Williams  flashed  across  me.  Here  I 
was  seemingly  free  at  last  from  that  awful 
umbrella  nightmare,  and  while  furtively  glanc- 
ing at  a  pretty  girl  in  a  railway  train  the  first 
umbrella  I  see  takes  on  the  characteristics  of 
that  Whitehouse  pest.  I  looked  resolutely  out 
of  the  window  for  some  minutes,  assuring 
myself  that  I  was  a  niiddle-aged  Idiot.  Here 
was  a  good-looking  girl,  who  happened  to  have 
a  handsome  umbrella  with  an  ivory  handle. 
Perfectly  allowable;  anybody  with  a  yearning 
for  ivory-handled  umbrellas  could  gratify  it 
upon  consulting  a  dealer.  However,  it  was 
natural  that  I  should  be  sensitive  on  umbrellas 
in  general  and  ivory-handled  ones  in  particular. 


34 

That  was  all;  nothing  serious;  why  not  look 
again?  I  did  look.  The  pretty  girl  was  no 
longer  a  factor  in  the  case,  and  as  I  knew  no 
rule  of  politeness  which  forbids  staring  at  an 
umbrella,  I  stared  steadily.  Argue  as  I  would, 
there  was  something  remarkable  about  that 
handle.  The  design  was  undoubtedly  a  bunch 
of  grapes  and  two  figures  extraordinarily  like 
cupids.  Having  decided  this  point  I  rested 
my  eyes  and  meditated. 

"Suppose,"  I  thought,  "that  Great  Uncle  Will- 
iams's  umbrella  is  really  across  the  aisle  from 
me  at  this  moment,  with  that  girl  as  proprietor. 
Then  all  my  letters  to  the  914  members  of  the 
American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Invention  will  be  in  vain,  for  there  is  not  a 
woman  among  them."  The  conclusion  seemed 
Irresistible  that  it  was  my  immediate  duty  to 
Inquire  about  my  fair  neighbor's  umbrella,  but 
I  blushed  at  the  mere  thought.  Yet  an  hour 
or  so  more,  perhaps  the  very  next  stop,  might 
see  that  pretty  girl  and  her  ivory-handled  mys- 
tery whisk  out  of  the  car,  leaving  me  to  con- 
tinue my  idle  inquiries  of  the  914,  and  to  bear 
the  Major's  abuse. 

The  thought  was  too  much.  I  sprang  up 
quickly,  encountering  a  roguish  glance  from  my 
pretty  neighbor.  She  would  have  been  provoked 
to  know  what  a  small  part  she  played  in  my 
thoughts  as  I  approached  her. 


85 

"I  beg  pardon,"  I  said,  bowing  as  politely  as 
I  was  capable  of  doing,  "your  umbrella  has  such 
a  remarkable  handle  that  I  have  ventured  to  ask 
permission  to  look  at  it" 

"Certainly,"  she  answered  simply,  smiling  so 
broadly  at  my  inquiry  that  I  felt  surprised. 

Lifting  her  satchel  to  the  floor  and  drawing 
her  lunchbox  closer,  she  requested  me  to  be1 
seated,  and  handed  me  her  umbrella  with  a 
look  of  intense  amusement.  Suddenly  the  cause 
of  it  flashed  across  me.  My  query  had  seemed 
merely  a  clumsy  device  to  scrape  acquaintance, 
and  so  pitifully  clumsy  as  to  be  convulsively 
funny.  Blushing  and  horrified,  I  sank  into  the 
seat  beside  her,  and  looked  at  the  umbrella 
with  a  stony  glare,  wondering  desperately  what 
I  could  say. 

"Are  you  a  connoisseur  in  umbrellas?"  she- 
asked  quizzically. 

"Well,  I— not  exactly,"  I  stammered.  "I  have- 
a  friend  who  has  ai  umbrella." 

"Indeed!"  !    j 

"Yes,"  I  floundered  on,  not  very  coherently. 
"A  remarkable  umbrella.  He  inherited  it  from 
his  Great  Uncle  Williams.  He  died  in  1889, 
and  left  him  an  only  bequest.  It's  nearly  forty 
years  old." 

"The  bequest  is  forty  years  old,  or  your  Great 
Uncle  Williams  is?"  she  asked  pityingly. 

"Not  my  great  uncle,  but  my  friend's,"  I  ex- 


36 

claimed,  horrified  to  have  the  Major's  nightmare 
relative  loaded  upon  me. 

"And  your  friend  is  forty  years  old?" 

"No,  his  umbrella  is." 

We  both  laughed,  and  it  cleared  up  the  situ- 
ation considerably. 

"You  see,"  I  exclaimed,  getting  my  senses 
back  by  degrees,  "my  friend's  Great  Uncle  Will- 
lams  died  in  1889,  and  left  him  his  family  um- 
brella as  an  only  bequest,  and  it  is  now  nearly 
forty  years  old." 

"Does  he  carry  it  still?" 

"Oh,  yes;  he  values  it  very  highly,  and  it's 
•quite  an  interesting  relic." 

I  suppose  everybody  who  has  been  shaken 
up  mentally  as  I  had  been  makes  a  break  some- 
where along  the  line.  My  turn  was  about  to 
come.  My  fair  companion  appeared  politely  in- 
terested, and  I  continued  idiotically, 

'Tve  been  quite  interested  in  the  subject,  be- 
cause lately  the  old  umbrella  was  lost,  and  I 
have  tried  to  help  recover  it."  The  real  situ- 
ation was  so  bluntly  apparent  to  my  new  ac- 
quaintance that  her  manner  changed  instantly. 

"So  you  suspect  my  umbrella  of  being  stolen 
property?"  she  asked,  coldly. 

"Not  by  any  means,"  I  protested. 

"I  will  trouble  you  for  the  umbrella,  sir,"  she 
continued.  "Any  one  is  at  liberty  to  admire  it, 
but  I  cannot  permit  examination  for  identifica- 
tion as  somebody  else's  property." 


87 

So  saying  she  stood  the  umbrella  up  in  the 
corner,  and  covered  the  handle  with  her  jacket. 
The  pleasant  look  of  companionship  had  faded 
from  her  face.  Evidently  my  presence  was  no 
longer  agreeable. 

Once  more  the  Major's  confounded  umbrella 
had  brought  me  to  grief,  but  I  did  not  propose- 
to  yield  so  easily.  Some  radical  turn  was  needed, 
and  this  time  the  Major  and  not  I  should  be 
sacrificed. 

"Please  don't  condemn  me  so  hastily,"  I  said. 

"You  have  condemned  yourself." 

"On  the  contrary,  the  court  isn't  open.  The- 
judge  and  clerk  went  out  some  time  ago  for  a 
cheese  sandwich." 

"When  do  they  return?'  she  asked  with  a 
glimmer  of  a  smile. 

"They  are  just  coming  in  now.  You  shall  be 
judge  and  plaintiff,  too.  Please  state  your  side 
of  the  case." 

"It  is  very  simple  and  very  conclusive,"  she 
said.  "You  know  a  man  who  owned  an  old 
umbrella.  Lately  he  lost  it.  You  wanted  to- 
help  him  find  it,  and  seeing  a  young  woman  on 
a  railroad  train,  alone,  and  with  an  umbrella 
remotely  resembling  the  lost  one,  you  accosted 
her,  determined  to  obtain  the  umbrella  if  it  ap- 
peared at  all  like  your  friend's." 

She  was  certainly  close  to  the  truth,  but  I 
listened  with  an  apparent  air  of  pity. 


88 

"Is  the  court  ready  for  the  defence?"  I  asked. 

4'It  is." 

"Then  I  put  in  a  total  denial.  The  whole 
umbrella  episode  is  a  fiction." 

"Your  Uncle  Williams  and  all?"  she  asked  in 
surprise. 

"All  fiction,"  I  continued  calmly.  "The  fact 
was  I  wanted  dreadfully  to  get  acquainted  with 
the  young  lady  who  sat  across  the  aisle,  and 
I  couldn't  think  how  to  accomplish  it.  I  racked 
my  brain  from  Hartford  to  Springfield  for  some 
•excuse,  and  finally  cooked  up  the  umbrella  epi- 
sode. I  was  rather  shaky  at  first,  wasn't  I?"  I 
inquired. 

"Indeed  you  were,"  she  answered,  laughing 
at  the  recollection. 

"This  is  the  defence,"  I  added,  solemnly.  "I 
throw  myself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court,  and 
ask  for  a  decision  of  the  case." 

My  companion  was  thoroughly  mollified. 

"The  court  decides  that  you  are  a  very  wicked 
man,"  she  said,  "and  that  you  told  a  very  large 
story  for  a  very  small  reward.  For  punish- 
ment you  shall  not  mention  'umbrella'  till  we 
get  to  Worcester,  where  I  change  cars." 

I  gave  a  parting  glance  at  her  ivory-handled 
property  in  the  corner.  If  that  umbrella  was 
not  the  one  given  me  on  Pike's  Peak  it  was 
a  well-preserved  twin.  The  size  was  right;  the 
silk  was  right;  the  handle  was  ivory,  carved  to 


represent  a  bunch  of  grapes  and  two  cupids 
rampant.  So  much  I  had  seen  in  my  hurried 
and  rattled  inspection.  However,  the  Major 
was  overboard  now,  and  I  had  burned  my 
bridges. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "I  would  meekly  endure 
a  far  more  terrible  punishment  than  that  to 
earn  your  society  to  Worcester." 

The  hour  that  followed  was  a  delightful  one. 
We  chatted  upon  all  sorts  of  subjects,  and  I 
found  that  my  companion  was  not  only  exceed- 
ingly pretty,  she  was  also  clever.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  she  had  been  carefully  educated,  and 
I  early  learned  that  she  was  either  a  Wellesley 
student  or  had  graduated  from  that  institution; 
which,  I  could  not  determine,  for  while  she 
chatted  freely  on  impersonal  subjects,  she  was 
very  wary  in  referring  to  herself.  My  admira- 
tion increased  rapidly,  and  I  was  anxious  to 
obtain  some  clew  to  her  identity  before  reach- 
ing Worcester,  which  she  had  mentioned  as  her 
stopping  place,  and  which  we  were  now  rapidly 
approaching.  I  suggested  that  we  at  least  ex- 
change names.  She  laughingly  declined,  but 
held  up  one  corner  of  a  dainty  cambric  hand- 
kerchief to  my  eager  gaze,  and  let  me  see  the 
word  "Mabel."  That  was  all;  nothing  would 
Induce  her  to  reveal  more,  and  when,  at  length, 
I  helped  her  from  the  car  at  Worcester,  and 
reluctantly  said  farewell,  beyond  her  first  name 


40 

and  the  fact  that  she  stopped  at  Worcester  to 
merely  change  for  some  station  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, I  had  no  clew  to  her  identity  or  home. 
I  watched  the  dainty,  girlish  figure  with  the 
satchel,  lunchbox  and  the  tabooed  umbrella, 
picking  her  way  across  the  station  and  longed 
to  follow,  which  I  would  gladly  have  done,  if 
I  had  not  felt  sure  it  would  have  been  consid- 
ered a  liberty.  There  was  little  time  to  debate 
this,  however,  for  my  train  was  already  mov- 
ing. I  swung  on  board,  and  returned  to  my 
seat  with  the  memory  of  the  farewell  smile 
that  my  new-found  friend  had  given  me  as  the 
train  started,  and  a  great  sense  of  loneliness 
and  regret.  My  feelings  for  the  rest  of  the 
journey  were  of  the  most  mixed  and  unsettled 
character.  The  Major  and  his  umbrella  were 
swept  out  of  my  mind,  and  I  found  that  my 
fair  companion  had  been  greatly  like  a  Kansas 
cyclone.  She  hadn't  lasted  long,  but  she  had 
done  great  damage. 

"As  usual,  I  have  been  a  fool  in  one  act,"  I 
said  angrily  to  myself,  looking  out  the  window 
and  seeing  nothing.  "She  is  the  most  attractive 
girl  I  ever  met,  and  I  didn't  have  tact  enough 
even  to  learn  her  name.  The  world  is  full  of 
'Mabels.'  That  is  merely  the  wisp  of  straw 
before  the  starving  donkey.  I'm  the  donkey." 

The  average  man  takes  pleasure  in  abusing 
himself.  It  is  a  harmless  occupation  that  re- 


41 

lieves  pressure  and  seems  to  start  the  mental 
circulation.  After  roundly  denouncing  myself 
for  failing  to  ascertain  the  name  of  my  van- 
ished girl  friend,  and  also  for  not  following 
her,  I  quieted  my  feelings  by  deciding  to  obtain 
a  Wellesley  catalogue  at  the  first  opportunity 
and  to  investigate  every  Mabel  in  the  list.  I 
then  told  myself  to  calm  down. 

"You  are  too  old,  Dunkley,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"to  prance  around  like  a  college  boy.  Nature 
can't  stand  the  strain.  Be  calm.  Descend  from 
the  train,  old  man,  as  tranquil  as  you  entered 
It." 

The  fact  remained,  however  that  I  had  had  a 
delightful  adventure  and  met,  even  though  for  a 
brief  hour  or  two  only,  a  most  attractive  girl,  to 
whom  the  adventure  was  evidently  as  novel  and 
exciting  as  it  was  to  me.  Added  to  that  was  the 
tantalizing  fact  that  I  had  either  seen  and 
handled  Great  Uncle  Williams's  own  umbrella, 
or  else  one  so  like  it  that  even  the  lynx-eyed 
Whitehouse  could  not  have  told  them  apart.  I 
resigned  myself  to  the  inevitable,  however,  for 
the  adventure  was  over,  and  I  had  no  means 
of  continuing  it 

On  reaching  Portland  the  next  morning  I 
went  to  my  hotel  and  found  this  telegram,  for- 
warded from  New  York,  awaiting  me: 

Never  had  umbrella.  Think  Ditson,  Middle- 
town,  Conn.,  took  it.  Try  him. 

O.  PENFIELD. 


42 
I  wrote  at  once,  as  follows: 

My  Dear  Professor  Ditson: — 

I  am  having  a  harrowing  experience  over  an 
umbrella.  Have  you  any  property  of  that  sort 
in  your  possession  that  don't  belong  to  you: 
big  black  silk  affair;  ivory  handle  carved  to 
represent  a  bunch  of  grapes  and  a  pair  of  cupids 
rampant?  If  so,  I  beg  of  you  to  ship  it  to  me  at 
once,  at  my  expense.  While  on  the  association 
excursion  to  Pike's  Peak  in  July  Major 
Whitehouse  placed  in  my  charge  an  umbrella 
given  him  by  his  Great  Uncle  Williams.  It 
was  several  centuries  old,  more  or  less.  I  was 
to  bring  it  East  for  him,  but  gave  it  to  Randall. 
He  was  called  to  Utah  and  says  he  gave  it  to 
Cobb.  Cobb  denies  the  charge  and  says  it 
was  given  to  Hotchkiss.  He  also  sends  an  em- 
phatic denial,  but  recalls  the  umbrella  and  de- 
clares that  O.  Penfield,  of  Baltimore,  has  it. 
Penfleld  telegraphed  a  negative  and  says  to 
write  you.  He  actually  says  you  have  it.  I 
am  almost  sceptical  enough,  my  dear  Professor, 
to  doubt  the  existence  of  that  umbrella,  so  if 
you  haven't  it  don't  hesitate  to  say  so,  but  if 
you  have  it,  I  beg  of  you  to  seek  the  nearest 
express  office  at  the  earliest  moment.  You  little 
know  the  terrors  of  the  Major  when  searching 
for  his  own.  Yours  sincerely, 

HUNTINGTON  DUNKLEY. 

The  next  three  days  I  occupied  attending 
to  business  matters,  which  consumed  little  time, 
and  enjoying  myself,  which  consumed  a  great 
deal  of  time.  I  must  confess,  however,  that  the 
fair  Mabel  had  occupied  a  prominent  place  in 


43 

my  thoughts,  almost  too  prominent  for  a  staid 
bachelor  of  thirty-seven,  and  I  began  to  think 
that  my  trip  had  added  to>  my  woes  rather  than 
lightened  them.  The  fourth  day  came  a  letter 
from  Middletown.  It  was  a  large  letter  with 
two  stamps  on  it,  which  I  felt  had  significance  of 
some  sort,  and  I  opened  it  hastily.  It  was  as 
follows: 


CHAIR  OF 
PSYCHOLOGICAL    MECHANICS, 

MIDDLETOWN,   CONN. 


September  10*   1894. 


My  Gear  Dtinkley;- 

Your  letter  arrived  during  my  absence* 
which  explains  'delay.        Mr.   Randall  asked  me  to 
oriAg   the  umbrella  East   for  him,    and    I  did   so 
with  pleasure.        I  wae    Ignorant,    however,    of 
the  previous  incident  you  mention  or  that    it 
belonged   to  Major  ffhltehouse.        I   supposed    It 
was  owned  by  Mr.   Randall,    and  have  awaited   some 
word  from  him.        I  am  mortified  to  tell  you* 
however*    that    I  cannot  send   the  umbrella   to  you 
at   once.        My  daughter  Mabel,    w]\o  ha  a   a  weakness 
for  antiques  and   oddities,    took   a  violent 
liking  to  the  old  umbrella,    and  my  wife   Bays  slit 
.too*   it  with  her  to   New  Hampshire   last    wee},, 
Had   *  feeen  at  home,  I  should-  not  have   permitted 
it,    but  the  ntlechief   is'  done  and    I  can  only 
apologize.        She  will   be  home  October  1st,    and 
J  will   send  the  umbrella  to  you  by  express 
immediately. 

ttith  much  respect,    1  remain. 
¥ojjtr«faithfuily, 


45 

I  laid  the  Professor's  letter  and  its  inclosure 
down.  The  quest  was  over,  and  the  Major's 
elusive  umbrella  cornered  at  last;  but  better 
than  all,  the  identity  of  the  bewitching  Mabel 
was  disclosed.  Fate  had  been  hitting  me  hard 
for  a  couple  of  weeks,  but  I  frankly  admitted 
that  handsome  reparation  was  being  made  now. 
Few  men  who  long  to  meet  a  pretty  and  un- 
known girl  find  a  letter  of  introduction  in  the 
morning  mail  from  the  girl's  own  father.  I 
picked  up  the  unsealed  envelope  and  read: 

To  Miss  Mabel  E.  Ditson,  care  Hon.  Josiah 
Eddy,  Main  street,  Nashua,  N.  H.  Intro- 
ducing Mr.  H.  Dunkley. 

The  inclosed  note  read: 

My  Dear  Daughter:— 

The  umbrella  which  I  brought  back  from  Den- 
ver belongs  to  Major  Whitehouse,  of  Jersey 
City,  and  he  desires  it  immediately. 

This  will  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Huntington 
Dunkley,  of  New  York,  a  friend  of  the  Major's, 
and  an  esteemed  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  please 
deliver  the  umbrella  at  once. 

Mr.  Dunkley  is  the  third  vice-president  of  the 
American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Invention,  and  a  young  man  of  high  inventive 
attainments.  I  commend  him  most  heartily  to 
your  favor.  Your  affectionate  father, 

D.  L.  D. 

In  three  hours  my  business  in  Portland  was 
completed,  and  I  was  on  my  way  to  Nashua. 
Professor  Ditson  would  have  been  surprised,  I 


46 

presume,  at  my  haste.  He  would  have  been 
still  more  surprised,  however,  at  the  first  chap- 
ter of  the  story. 

"There  are  a  good  many  things  the  old  peo- 
ple don't  know,"  I  reflected  facetiously.  It  was 
wonderful  how  kittenish  I  had  become.  I  went 
over  to  Nashua  that  evening  from  Boston,  and 
readily  found  the  residence  of  Hon.  Josiah  Eddy. 
It  was  a  substantial,  old-fashioned  New  Eng- 
land house,  with  the  usual  big  white  pillars 
before  it.  The  maid  informed  me  that  Miss 
Ditson  was  at  home,  and  handing  her  my  card 
and  the  letter  of  introduction,  I  waited  with 
considerable  trepidation  in  the  old-fashioned  but 
well-appointed  parlor.  There  was  a  brief  delay, 
then  a  rustle  of  feminine  skirts  on  the  stairs, 
and  my  whilom  acquaintance  of  the  train  stood 
in  the  doorway.  A  look  of  utter  bewilderment 
came  over  her  face  as  she  recognized  the  visitor. 
It  almost  seemed  unfair,  for  while  I  understood 
the  situation,  her  father's  note  and  my  card  in 
no  way  suggested  the  railway  acquaintance  to 
her  until  she  saw  me  face  to  face.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  hesitated,  blushing,  irresolute  and  al- 
most frightened. 

"Please  don't  treat  me  like  a  total  stranger, 
Miss  Ditson,"  I  said,  rising  to  meet  her,  "it 
has  been  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  avail  myself 
of  your  father's  note  of  introduction.  I  might 
better  call  it  a  privilege." 


47 

Miss  Ditson  was  not  a  girl  to  lack  self-pos- 
session long.  She  recovered  a  fair  working 
supply  while  I  spoke,  and  advancing  easily  to 
where  I  stood,  she  held  out  her  hand  with 
much  cordiality. 

"My  father's  friends  are  always  welcome  visi- 
tors wherever  I  am,"  she  said,  "but  your  face 
is  such  a  familiar  one,  Mr.  Dunkley,  that  the 
recognition  quite  overwhelmed  me  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

"It  would  be  hard  to  twist  a  compliment  out 
of  that,"  I  commented  mournfully. 

"Don't  try,"  she  said,  laughingly,  "you  have 
enough  to  do  making  peace  with  your  con- 
science." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  seem  to  have  totally  forgotten,  sir,  your 
solemn  assurances  to  the  court  that  you  had 
no  friend,  no  Great  Uncle  Somebody" 

"He  wasn't  my  great  uncle,"  I  protested. 

"Well,  anybody's,  then.  You  denied  his  ex- 
istence. Denied  even  the  umbrella.  You  said 
it  was  all  for  my  sake,"  she  pouted,  "and  it  was 
Just  a  whopper  after  all.  I  am  glad  papa  has 
supplied  you  with  a  character,  for  you  need  it. 
Your  are  a  dreadfully  wicked,  deceitful  man." 

"You  forget  the  facts,  Miss  Ditson,"  I  urged. 
"You  misunderstood  my  explanations  in  the 
train,  and  in  consequence  were  about  to  dismiss 
me.  Heroic  measures  were  necessary.  I  threw 


48 

my  friend  and  his  umbrella  completely  over- 
board to  preserve  your  acquaintance.  I  would 
have  thrown  anything  else  over  to  keep  it," 
I  added  fervently.  "Was  I  not  justified?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  a  glance  that 
thrilled  me.  "Any  way,  I  mustn't  be  too  severe, 
for  I  am  far  from  blameless  myself.  Indeed, 
your  opinion  of  me  must  be  dreadful.  Now, 
Mr.  Dunkley,"  she  went  on  giving  me  no  chance 
to  protest,  "you  must  lay  the  umbrella  subject 
aside  for  this  evening,  anyway." 

'^Certainly,"  I  said,  "I  did  not  call  to  discuss 
umbrellas." 

"I  thought  that  was  your  favorite  theme?" 

"It  isn't  I  can  talk  about  anything.  Try 
me." 

"I  will,"  she  answered,  laughing,  "but  I  wish 
to  introduce  you  to  my  uncle  and  his  family, 
and  then  I  am  going  to  take  you  with  me  to  a 
little  informal  party  nearby." 

"I  am  not  dressed  for  it,"  I  protested. 

"Yes,  you  are." 

"Very  well,  I  am  a  willing  victim,"  I  said, 
though  inwardly  regretting  that  I  could  not 
have  Miss  Mabel  all  to  myself. 

I  spent  that  night  as  Mr.  Eddy's  guest,  for 
he  would  not  hear  of  my  return  to  Boston  after 
the  pleasant  evening  passed  with  his  family, 
and  a  hotel,  he  declared,  was  inhospitable.  The 
next  day  there  was  to  be  a  drive  to  Milford  for 


49 

autumn  leaves,  and  I  had  been  promptly  in- 
cluded. Although  the  party  was  a  pleasant  one, 
I  had  eyes  for  Miss  Mabel  only,  and  as  she  was 
gracious,  the  day  was  a  delightful  one  to  me. 
That  evening  I  returned  to  Boston,  but  before 
leaving  I  had  solemnly  promised  to  come  back 
the  next  day  for  a  week,  to  participate  in  sev- 
eral festivities.  The  days  that  followed  were 
blissful  ones  for  me.  What  Mabel's  thoughts 
were  I  knew  not.  My  own  were  clear.  I  was 
head  over  heels  in  love  with  the  pretty,  co- 
quettish girl,  and  it  was  enough  to  be  with  her 
and  near  her.  We  made  excursions  together 
into  the  surrounding  country,  now  doubly  beau- 
tiful with  the  first  touches  of  autumn. 

There  are  some  parts  of  our  land  where  sum- 
mer seems  to  dry  up  and  blow  away,  but  in  New 
England  her  passing  is  in  garments  of  radiant 
jeauty.  First  a  faint  blush  on  all  the  land- 
scape, growing  deeper,  until,  seemingly  at  once, 
the  whole  horizon  is  ablaze  with  endless,  won- 
drous harmonies  of  color,  on  hill  and  forest; 
the  dull  brown-green  of  August  has  yielded  to 
tints  no  flowers  can  ever  equal,  no  canvas  re- 
produce. 

I  did  not  look  too  closely  into  the  future,  con- 
tent to  let  it  bring  its  own  problems,  but  mean- 
time I  spared  no  effort  and  no  expense  to 
make  myself  agreeable  and  to  win  Miss  Dlt- 
son's  favor.  The  Major  and  his  umbrella  had! 


50 

almost  faded  from  my  thoughts.  True,  she  had 
not  given  me  the  umbrella,  but  it  was  here,  and 
safe,  and  that  was  enough.  The  Major,  bad  luck 
to  him,  must  wait.  I  was  attending  to  my  own 
business  now.  Once  or  twice  I  had  referred 
to  Great  Uncle  Williams's  ancestral  property, 
but  Miss  Mabel  had  laughingly  turned  the  sub- 
ject to  something  else.  I  had  noticed,  more- 
over, that  she  now  used  a  dainty  and  modern 
blue  silk  umbrella,  which  I  took  to  be  a  delicate 
acknowledgment  of  relinquished  ownership  in 
the  big  one. 

In  rides,  excursions  and  parties  the  week 
passed  delightfully.  By  general  request  I 
lengthened  my  visit  another  two  days  to  par- 
ticipate in  a  final  excursion  to  the  shore.  The 
Intervening  day  Miss  Mabel  and  I  proposed 
to  occupy  by  walking  out  into  the  country  for 
chestnuts.  Before  we  started  the  morning  mail 
brought  me  a  letter  in  a  scrawling  hand.  I 
opened  it  with  some  curiosity  and  read: 


Ox  Bnuuwcli. 


52 

I  put  the  letter  in  my  pocket.  It  was  the  first 
jarring  note  of  the  week.  An  hour  later  Miss 
Mabel  and  I  were  strolling  toward  the  outskirts 
of  the  city 

"I'm  afraid,  Miss  Ditson,"  I  remarked,  re- 
calling the  letter  in  my  pocket,  "that  we  must 
box  up  your  adopted  umbrella  to-night  and 
ship  it  to  the  Major.  He  is  getting  excited." 

Miss  Mabel  did  not  answer.  I  glanced  at 
Tier  and  noticed  that  the  color  had  left  her 
•cheeks. 

"Would  you  rather  wait  till  you  return  to 
Ttfiddletown?"  I  inquired. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth  at  once, 
Mr.  Dunkley,"  she  said  in  low  tones,  "the  um- 
brella is  not  in  my  possession." 
"Then  where  is  it,"  I  asked  in  astonishment. 
"I  do  not  know."  Tears  of  mortification  and 
•embarrassment  came  to  her  eyes.  "It  is  lost," 
she  faltered.  "When  I  left  the  train  which  I 
took  after  leaving  you  at  Worcester  I  must 
have  forgotten  it,  and  permitted  it  to  remain  in 
the  seat,  for  after  reaching  my  uncle's  house  I 
was  horrified  to  discover  that  the  umbrella  was 
missing.  I  went  to  the  station  immediately 
and  offered  a  reward.  I  telegraphed  the  gen- 
eral office  in  Boston.  It  has  done  no  good.  The 
umbrella  is  lost,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
my  feelings  have  been.  I  knew  this  moment 
must  come,  but  oh  how  I  have  dreaded  it,  and 


53 

hoping  my  efforts  might  produce  some  result 
I  have  kept  you  here,  and  tried  to  prevent  you. 
from  thinking  of  the  subject.  Oh,  Mr.  Dunk- 
ley,"  she  added,  impetuously,  "what  a  wretched 
girl  you  must  think  me.  Can  you  ever  forgive 
such  carelessness  and  duplicity?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Miss  Mabel,"  I 
said,  sadly.  "The  umbrella  is  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  me.  Something  else  grieves  me  far  more- 
Yes,  overwhelms  me." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  apprehensively. 

"I  have  been  telling  myself  day  after  day  that 
your  cordiality  and  favor  showed  that  I  wa& 
not  distasteful  to  you,  and  from  that  I  dared  to 
hope  for  even  more.  You  have  shattered  all  my 
dearest  hopes  by  telling  me  your  favor  to  me 
was  a  matter  of  calculation  to  stave  off  ad- 
mitting the  loss  of  an  umbrella." 

"Oh,  not  at  all— not  so  bad  as  that,"  she  pro- 
tested, eagerly. 

"And  that  my  visit  and  my  entertainment 
were  prompted  and  designed  to  prolong  con- 
cealment," I  added  bitterly. 

My  companion  made  no  reply.  She  seemed 
overwhelmed. 

"While  I  regret  the  loss  of  the  umbrella,  it 
does  not  merit  a  second  thought,  but  I  feel 
angry  and  hurt  at  the  feigned  esteem  for  my- 
self." 

Something  I  had  said  stung  Miss  Mabel  to 
momentary  anger. 


54 

"Oh,  don't  let  that  trouble  you,"  she  said 
coldly.  "I  like  you.  I  couldn't  help  it.  You 
know  papa  wrote  you  I  had  a  weakness  for 
antiques  and  oddities." 

This  was  a  shot  I  was  not  prepared  for,  and 
I  was  about  to  retort  sharply,  when  I  noticed 
that  my  companion  had  collapsed  agan,  and 
that  the  tears  were  trickling  down  her  cheeks. 
My  anger  was  gone  in  a  second. 

"It's  all  the  Major's  umbrella,"  I  said  to 
myself.  "It  has  made  me  miserable  for  a 
month,  and  now  the  wretched  thing  has  cast 
Its  blight  on  her  life.  Here  and  now  I  end  the 
Major." 

"Miss  Mabel,"  I  said,  gently,  stopping  in  our 
walk  and  facing  her.  "We  are  having  some 
•explanations  this  morning  that  may  in  the  end 
do  us  both  good.  Set  your  mind  at  rest  about 
the  umbrella.  I  am  thankful  it  is  gone.  May 
It  never  return." 

"I  thought  it  was  terribly  valuable,"  she  said 
in  surprise. 

"There  is  something  else  of  far  greater  value 
and  importance  to  me,"  I  continued  eagerly, 
"for  it  involves  the  happiness  of  a  lifetime. 
The  idle  quest  for  an  old  umbrella  was  long 
ago  swallowed  up  and  lost  in  the  quest  for  your 
friendship  and— love." 

My  companion  started  and  walked  on.  "We 
shall  never  find  chestnuts  at  this  rate,  Mr. 


55 

Dunkley,"  she  said,  looking  back  at  me  with 
a  suggestion  of  returning  pertness. 

"I  cannot  trifle  now,  Miss  Mabel.  In  a  few 
hours  I  shall  start  for  Boston.  Let  us  have  a 
plain  understanding  before  I  go.  Whatever  you 
think  of  me,  remember  now,  and  when  I  have 
left  you,  that  the  devotion  and  love  of  my  life 
have  been  laid  at  your  feet.  Is  there  no  chance 
of  my  winning  your  love  in  return?" 

Silence. 

"Miss  Mabel,"  I  went  on  impetuously,  "do 
you  remember  the  court  that  we  held  that  day 
on  the  train?" 

"When  the  judge  and  the  clerk  went  out  for 
a  cheese  sandwich?"  she  asked,  smiling  faintly. 

"Yes.  You  were  the  judge  and  the  plaintiff 
then.  Now  the  court  is  in  session  again.  This 
time  you  are  judge  alone.  You  have  heard  the 
plea.  Do  not  send  me  away!  My  happiness 
—Oh,  Mabel,  my  all,  depends  upon  your  de- 
cision." 

I  tried  to  control  myself,  but  my  voice  faltered 
with  intensity  of  feeling  as  I  paused. 

We  had  stopped  again  in  our  walk.  The  spot 
was  a  secluded  one  on  the  outskirts  of  the  citv. 
and  though  there  were  houses  near,  they  stood 
at  increasing  intervals.  Back  of  us  was  a  high 
fence,  over  which  extended  the  brilliantly  clad 
branches  of  a  large  maple,  the  fallen  leaves  of 
which  formed  a  yellow  carpet  beneath  us.  Ma- 


56 

bel  was  still  silent.  She  pushed  a  dead  leaf 
along  with  the  toe  of  her  dainty  little  shoe, 
and  then  with  a  glance  far  more  eloquent  than 
words,  she  said: 

"The  court  decides  in  the  affirmative,  with 
costs." 

I  didn't  wait  for  more.  I  took  that  dear  girl 
in  my  arms  and  kissed  her  with  a  fervor  that 
spoke  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime.  I  suppose  it 
was  seen.  I  don't  care  if  it  was. 

"What  are  the  costs,  Mabel?'  I  asked. 

"You  paid  them  just  now,"  she  replied,  blush- 
Ingly. 


J\  Common  Sense  Cupid. 

The  thronging  noises  of  the  great  city,  sub- 
dued by  midnight,  but  never  ceasing,  came 
distantly  over  the  housetops  to  the  windows 
of  the  tall  bachelor  apartment-house  where 
Arthur  Hanford  occupied  a  modest  parlor  and 
bedroom,  but  they  did  not  serve  to  distract 
him  from  his  own  engrossing  thoughts,  which, 
beginning  apparently  with  an  open  letter  on  the 
table,  had  carried  him  many  years  and  many 
miles  away. 

Stroke  by  stroke,  each  more  delayed  and  doubt- 
ful than  the  last,  the  little  French  clock  on 
the  mantel  struck  12,  midnight  Hanford's 
clock  always  had  especial  difficulty  with  mid- 
night, and  on  this  particular  occasion  seemed 
to  give  an  asthmatic  gasp  of  relief  that  the 
twelve  strokes  had  been  duly  accomplished 
without  mishap— which,  of  course,  was  entirely 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  little  French  clock 


58 

—not  Hanford's,  for  Hanford  was  acting 
strangely.  A  busy,  active  man  of  affairs,  he 
was  not  ordinarily  given  to  fits  of  abstraction, 
yet  on  this  particular  evening  he  had  been  sit- 
ting in  his  easy  chair  for  two  hours,  com- 
pletely lost  in  thought  that  was  evidently  sad- 
dening in  the  extreme. 

Arthur  Hanford  was  a  tall,  well-built  man, 
with  brown  hair  and  mustache,  the  former 
touched  here  and  there  with  a  gray  line  or 
two,  more  indicative  of  hard  work  than  age,  for 
he  was  still  a  "young  man,"  when  that  hard- 
worked  phrase  was  made  courteously  broad  in 
its  application. 

Now  that  the  little  French  clock  had  served 
notice  of  midnight  in  vain,  the  outlook  for  its 
owner's  speedy  mental  return  to  everyday  mat- 
ters was  discouraging,  and  it  had  settled  down 
to  a  steady  all-night  tick,  when  the  door  was 
opened  without  the  suspicion  of  a  knock,  and 
a  plain-featured  young  man  of  perhaps  thirty 
years,  entered.  "I  saw  your  light,  Hanford," 
he  remarked,  making  himself  comfortable  on 
the  sofa,  "so  I  ventured  to  drop  in.  Can't  sleep 
so  early  myself.  After  a  year  on  a  night  desk 
in  a  newspaper  office,  you  might  as  well  chase 
a  rainbow  as  a  snore,  before  1  o'clock." 

"Then  you  are  back  on  day  work,  are  you, 
Watson,"  said  Hanford,  apparently  not  sur- 
prised at  his  visitor's  arrival. 


59 

"Sorry  to  say  I  am,  and  in  consequence  my 
nights,  from  8  to  1,  are  mere  vacant  spaces— 
ten-acre  lots  of  time,  so  to  speak,  a  portion  of 
which  I  am  now  prepared  to  devote  to  you— 
unless  you  are  busy,"  he  added. 

"No,  I  am  not  busy,"  replied  Hanford,  quiet- 
ly. "I  received  a  letter  this  evening,"  he  con- 
tinued, "that  has  affected  me  considerably,  and 
I  have  wasted  hours  in  profitless  thoughts." 

"Thoughts,"  rejoined  Watson,  sententiously, 
"are  poor  companions  after  the  age  of  thirty, 
for  the  'might  have  beens'  begin  to  appear, 
and  make  things  uncomfortable.  Before  thirty 
it  is  all  'may  be,'  which,  of  course,  is  all  right. 
In  your  case,  Hanford,  you  are  beyond  the 
thirty  line.  You  have  no  business  to  think." 

"I  fear  you  are  right,"  said  Hanford,  wearily. 
"This  letter  has  brought  old  times  back  to  me 
thick  and  fast." 

"Meditation  in  its  most  aggravated  form— 
from  a  letter,"  remarked  Watson. 

"Why  so?' 

"Well,  a  letter  generally  indicates  a  woman  in 
the  case.  Am  T  right?" 

"You   are." 

"And  a  woman  in  the  case  indicates  that  the 
'might  have  been'  microbes  are  simply  count- 
less. Am  I  right?" 

"You  are." 

There  was  something  in  Hanford's  saddened 


60 

and  lifeless  manner  that  attracted  his  friend's 
attention.  They  were  opposites  in  temperament 
and  appearance,  thrown  much  together;  first, 
because  they  lived  across  the  hall  from  each 
other,  and  afterward  because  a  genuine  af- 
fection had  sprung  up  between  them. 

Watson  was  a  man  of  few  natural  advan- 
tages. Plain-looking  and  one  of  those  unfortu- 
nate men  upon  whom  everything  seemed  ill-pro- 
portioned, his  features  were  irregular,  and  his 
thin  and  refractory  beard  was  thickest  where 
least  desired.  A  sensitive  appreciation  of  his 
own  physical  defects  made  him  extremely  diffi- 
dent with  the  other  sex,  and  his  conversation 
often  took  the  careless  and  cynical  tone  which 
frequently  occurs  when  a  man's  associates 
are  almost  entirely  masculine.  Yet  beneath  a 
rough  and  somewhat  careless  exterior,  there 
were  depths  of  unstirred  tenderness  and  un- 
selfish devotion.  The  existence  of  these  qual- 
ities, though  unnoticed  and  perhaps  by  some  un- 
suspected, served  nevertheless  to  make  him  a 
trusted  friend,  and  Hanford's  apartment  was 
not  the  only  one  In  the  big  building  where  Wat- 
son's rough  personality  and  crisp  and  original 
remarks  were  always  welcome. 

"It  has  long  been  a  belief  of  mine,"  he  said, 
watching  his  friend  closely,  and  wondering1 
how  he  could  aid  him,  "that  most  of  the  'might 
have  beens'  are  totally  inexcusable.  We  hu- 


61 

man  beings  have  the  unhappy  faculty  of  blun- 
dering at  a  crisis.  The  head  should  be  clearest 
at  the  most  critical  moment.  As  a  matter  ol 
fact,  it  seldom  or  never  is." 

"Possibly  you  are  right,"  said  Hanford,  "but 
I  am  fatalist  enough  to  doubt  it." 

"You  should  not." 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  is  generally  a  question  of  common- 
sense.  Most  of  us  possess  that  inestimable  gift, 
but  too  often  we  ignore  it." 

"Common-sense  does  not  apply  to  affairs  of 
the  heart,"  said  Hanford. 

"So  lovers  always  declare.  I  never  under- 
stood why.  Perhaps  I  shall  when  the  tender 
passion  smites  me.  They  take  your  standpoint; 
smile  a  sad  smile;  say,  'Oh,  no,'  and  suffer.  I 
take  it  your  present  trouble  is  a  love  affair  of 
some  sort,  and  I'll  wager  most  anything  that 
there  is  a  lack  of  common-sense  tied  up  in  it 
somewhere." 

"I  don't  believe  in  a  common-sense  Cupid," 
said  Hanford,  shortly. 

"Come,  Hanford,  what  is  the  trouble?  If  it 
isn't  indelicate  to  ask  it,  may  I  hear  the  story? 
My  theories  may  be  wrong,  but  I  should  like  to 
test  them."  Watson's  tone  was  hearty  and 
sympathetic.  He  looked  anxiously  at  his  friend, 
feeling  sure  from  his  voice  and  manner  that 
some  serious  trouble  had  overtaken  him. 


62 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  about  it,  Watson. 
Indeed,  it  may  do  me  good  to  talk  to  a  trusted 
friend,  but  it  will  probably  bore  you.  There  is 
nothing  thrilling  or  dramatic  in  the  story." 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  interposed  Watson.  "We  keep 
that  sort  of  thing  for  Sunday  specials.  This  is  a 
week  day.  Go  ahead,  but  first  lend  me  a  pipe. 
Without  tobacco,  conversation  after  midnight,  as 
Shakespeare  sweetly  observes,  'is  a  wasteful 
and  ridiculous  excess.' "  Saying  which  he 
filled  and  lighted  a  cob  pipe  from  his  friend's 
tray,  and  resumed  his  comfortable  attitude  on 
the  sofa.  "To  apply  my  common-sense  method 
which  you  object  to,"  he  continued,  "to  affairs 
of  sentiment,  we  ought,  of  course,  to  have  the 
facts.  I  should  not  feel  competent  to  advise 
you  in  a  love  affair  actually  in  progress,  nor, 
indeed,  should  I  be  justified  in  intruding  argu- 
ment and  platitude  under  those  circumstances. 
That  would  be  simply  a  case  of  vivisection.  I 
take  it  this  case  is  old  enough  to  permit  dis- 
cussion without  indelicacy." 

"Old  enough,  yes."  Hanford  paused.  His 
thoughts  seemed  again  to  have  strayed  from  his* 
little  parlor  and  his  friend's  companionship. 

"The  incident  was  one  of  my  youth,"  he  said 
after  a  moment's  silence.  "To  the  girl  it  is  an  old 
and  long-forgotten  story.  To  me— well,  you 
needn't  mind  me.  Here  it  is: 

"You  have  often  heard  me  refer  to  my  college 


63 

life  and  the  mistake  I  made,  considering  my 
present  occupation,  of  fitting  myself  at  a  tech- 
nical school  to  be  a  mining  engineer.  I  think, 
however,  that  I  have  seldom  mentioned  the 
two  years  which  followed  graduation.  Indeed, 
to  look  back  on  them,  they  seem  like  a  dream 
to  me.  They  represented  an  earnest  attempt  to 
follow  my  chosen  profession,  and  were  years  of 
great  effort  and  unrequited  labor. 

"On  concluding  my  course  at  college,  I  ad- 
vertised in  the  technical  papers  for  employ- 
ment and  received  one  reply.  It  came  from  a 
man  in  Boston,  who  said  he  desired  some  spe- 
cial work  performed  in  the  way  of  mineralogical 
research,  and  suggested  an  interview.  I  went 
to  Boston  and  found  my  inquirer  represented 
a  syndicate  prepared  to  search  for  Iron  ore. 

"Perhaps  you  know  that  the  western,  or  New 
York,  shore  of  Lake  Champlain  is  rich  in  iron 
deposits,  which  are  profitably  mined  at  several 
points.  The  whole  western  shore  is  wild  and 
rugged,  while  the  Vermont  shore  opposite  is 
level,  accessible  and  highly  cultivated. 

"The  syndicate  believed  that  a  careful  investi- 
gation would  disclose  iron  ore  at  some  point 
along  the  Vermont  shore,  of  better  quality  and 
more  easily  mined.  If  ore  could  be  found  con- 
taining magnetic  qualities  it  would  be  of  im- 
mense value. 

"After  some  negotiation,  I  was  engaged  for 


64 

my  expenses  and  a  trifling  salary  besides,  to 
make  a  thorough  examination  of  the  eastern 
shore,  my  incentive  to  diligence  and  success 
lying  in  a  handsome  bonus  offered  by  my  em- 
ployers for  the  desired  discovery. 

"I  began  immediately,  and  deciding  that  my 
outside  work  must  be  done  during  the  sum- 
mer months,  I  settled  on  a  small  village  just 
below  Burlington  as  my  headquarters,  and  ob- 
tained lodgings.  There  I  remained  for  several 
weeks,  making  a  careful  study  of  the  geological 
formation  of  that  region,  and  then  set  out  on  a 
mile-by-mile  observation  of  the  shore,  making 
a  chart  and  obtaining  specimens  of  rock  forma- 
tion. 

"Once  a  week  I  returned  to  my  headquarters 
and  labelled  and  arranged  my  specimens  for 
future  study. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  that  my  waking  hours 
were  not  all  devoted  to  the  search  for  ore, 
though  I  labored  long  and  faithfully  to  that  end. 
The  village  I  had  chosen  for  my  temporary 
home  was  beautifully  located,  perhaps  half 
a  mile  from  the  lake,  though  from  that  side  only 
the  white  spire  was  visible.  It  was  a  farming 
village,  like  most  Vermont  towns,  peaceful  and 
spotless,  with  its  common,  its  white  houses  and 
elms,  and  that  air  of  substantial  comfor*  so 
characteristic  of  New  England,  and  so  seldom 
seen  elsewhere. 


65 

"The  village  itself  was  a  mere  hamlet.  There 
were  three  stores  and  perhaps  fifty  houses  al- 
together. I  early  learned,  however,  that  there 
was  one  leading  and  dominating  spirit  in  the 
community. 

"Vermont  elects  a  Governor  annually,  and,  in 
consequence,  her  ex-Governors  are  innumerable. 
One  of  them,  ex-Governor  Milbank,  lived  in 
the  village  and  he  controlled  it  mentally,  socially 
and  financially. 

"The  Governor  was  a  man  of  large  property, 
and  though  living  in  a  rural  community,  was 
far  from  being  provincial.  His  house,  the  most 
pretentious  in  town,  was  surrounded  by  lawns 
and  shrubbery,  and  was  furnished  in  perfect 
taste.  It  was  a  gentleman's  house  in  every 
particular,  and  as  both  the  Governor  and  his 
family  travelled  much,  they  had  accumulated 
many  objects  of  interest  from  other  lands. 

"When  I  went  to  Lyndon,  Governor  Milbank 
was  a  well-preserved  man  of  sixty.  His  wife 
was  a  cultivated  and  agreeable  woman.  Their 
large  family,  consisting  of  four  sons  and  four 
daughters,  was  much  scattered.  Three  sons 
had  married  and  settled  down  at  distant  points; 
two  daughters  were  also  married;  and  of  the 
two  at  home  unmarried,  cne  was  not  over  six- 
teen, still  a  schoolgirl." 

Hanford  paused,  while  his  friend  refilled  the 
cob  pipe. 


66 

"Eligible  young  men,  as  you  doubtless  know," 
he  resumed,  "do  not  teem  in  country  villages, 
and  my  arrival  was  soon  known  in  the  Gov- 
ernor's house.  I  sought  an  introduction,  and 
before  long  I  became  a  welcome  visitor,  drop- 
ping in  frequently  whenever  I  reached  town 
from  one  of  my  numerous  expeditions.  Some- 
how I  found  the  younger  daughter  the  most 
companionable  member  of  the  family.  Her 
elder  sister  was  older  than  I  and  a  fine  girl, 
but  much  occupied  with  the  affairs  of  the  house- 
hold or  the  many  and  ramifying  interests  out- 
side. 

"The  young  son  at  home  was  a  shy,  retiring 
boy,  with  whom  I  had  little  in  common.  After 
my  trips  I  generally  took  a  day  off,  and  if  I 
needed  a  companion  for  a  walk,  a  fishing  excur- 
sion to  the  nearby  shore,  an  opponent  at  tennis 
or,  in  short,  a  congenial  associate,  Kathleen 
Milbank  was  always  ready. 

"She  would  not  have  been  called  pretty,  but 
she  had  a  vivacious,  attractive  face,  graceful 
figure  and  manners  that  were  unaffected  and 
indescribably  pleasing.  She  was  the  most  com- 
panionable girl  I  ever  met,  an  inveterate  flirt, 
as  romantic  as  her  age  suggested,  bubbling 
over  with  animal  spirits  and  good  nature.  She 
showed  the  influence  of  careful  rearing,  for 
she  had  a  large  store  of  good  sense, 
and  in  her  quieter  moods  gave  glimpses  of  the 
genuine,  earnest  womanhood  to  come. 


67 

"Kathleen  was  eight  years  younger  than  I, 
which  means  more  at  that  age  than  it  does 
later,  and  while  I  regarded  her  as  an  ideal  com- 
panion I  studiously  avoided  anything  senti- 
mental, in  spite  of  the  opportunity  which  her 
age  and  romantic  disposition  offered.  It  never 
occurred  to  me  to  analyze  this.  It  came,  I  sup- 
pose, from  a  feeling  that  trifling  might  lead  to 
serious  results,  and  as  I  was  older  and  more 
experienced  I  had  no  right  to  take  such  a  course. 

"We  had  both  had  affairs  of  the  heart,  at 
least  we  called  them  so,  and  Kathleen  related 
hers  with  deepest  interest  and  laughing  eyes, 
especially  her  school  escapades. 

"A  favorite  resort  of  ours  was  a  bluff  on  the 
lake  shore,  about  a  mile  to  the  southward,  where 
a  tongue  of  land  jutted  into  the  lake,  breaking 
the  uniform  shore  line  and  forming  a  bay.  OR 
this  bluff  Burgoyne  had  encamped  for  a  day  or 
two  during  his  ill-fated  expedition  to  Saratoga, 
and  had  left  a  permanent  reminder  of  himself 
in  rude  earthworks,  still  dimly  visible.  Here 
beneath  a  sentinel  elm  we  spent  many  pleas- 
ant hours  reading  and  talking. 

"Kathleen  had  ideas  of  her  own,  which  she 
expressed  remarkably  well.  She  acted  as  an 
intellectual  stimulant  to  me,  and  our  discussions 
on  all  sorts  of  topics  were  of  value  to  us  both. 

"Gradually  my  association,  with  Miss  Kath- 
leen became  the  most  delightful  feature  of  my 


68 

life  at  the  lake,  and  I  found  myself  looking  for- 
ward to  our  weekly  excursions  with  consider- 
able interest.  Do  not  imagine,  however,  that 
I  neglected  the  rest  of  the  family,  for  I  found 
them  all  agreeable  friends,  and  felt  in  return 
that  I  was  liked  by  them. 

"There  were  occasional  visitors,  young  people 
of  both  sexes,  at  the  Governor's  house,  and  at 
such  times  I  shortened  my  stay  in  the  village  and 
made  my  excursions  especially  lengthy  and 
thorough. 

"  'She  doesn't  want  me  around,'  I  reasoned. 
4I  am  welcome  when  younger  and  more  con- 
genial companions  are  lacking,  but  when  they 
are  present  I  ought  to  be  absent.' 

"This  policy  I  regarded  at  the  time  as  a  lofty 
exhibition  of  disinterested  friendship.  Perhaps 
at  this  distance  I  can  see  a  different  reason, 
unsuspected  at  the  time. 

"In  September  Kathleen  left  for  boarding 
school,  and  in  spite  of  my  independence  and  the 
positive  assurances  I  gave  myself,  the  town  lost 
interest  for  me  immediately.  As  my  season  was 
practically  over,  I  packed  up  my  data  and  sam- 
ples, and  early  in  October  departed  for  Boston, 
having  completed  about  two-thirds  of  my  task. 
The  winter  was  occupied  in  working  out  my 
notes  and  testing  specimens.  Several  of  the 
latter  showed  encouraging  results,  and  my  em- 
ployers were  so  well  pleased  that  they  decided 


to  have  me  complete  my  work  the  following 
season.  Accordingly,  when  the  spring  was  well 
advanced,  I  resumed  my  old  miarters  and  mode- 
of  life. 

"Kathleen  and  I  had  exchanged  letters  oc- 
casionally during  the  winter,  and  I  had  seen  her 
twice,  so  the  gap  made  by  the  separation  was 
not  especially  wide.  We  fell  back  into  our  old 
ways,  companionship  and  excursions,  in  the 
most  natural  and  comfortable  style,  and  the  sum- 
mer sped  away  in  this  congenial  combination  of 
work  and  holiday. 

"  'I  do  not  care  for  Kathleen  except  as  a 
jolly  girl  friend,'  I  kept  saying  to  myself,  'and. 
she  cares  nothing  for  me  except  in  the  same 
way.  There  are  two  or  three  young  sprigs 
who  stand  far  higher  with  her  sentimentally 
than  I  do,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for,  of  course,  I 
am  much  older,  and  I  am  not  laying  siege  to 
her  heart,  so  sentiment  must  be  kept  out.'  I  did 
not  notice  that  the  very  vehemence  of  this  argu- 
ment with  myself  Indicated  something  amiss. 

"Thus  the  last  weeks  of  my  stay  passed,  and 
as  they  approached  a  close  I  was  conscious 
that  an  indefinable  dread  was  settling  over  me, 
which,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  I  could  not  shake 
off. 

"At  length,  one  afternoon  in  late  August,  as 
we  sat  under  the  elms  on  the  bluff,  I  was  about 
to  tell  her  of  my  completed  work  and  speedy 


70 

departure.    I  had  been  giving  her  a  lesson  in 
sketching,  and  she  suddenly  looked  up  and  said: 
"  'You  are  a  great  comfort,  Mr.  Hanford.' 
'  'Thanks,'  I  replied,  Tm  like  tea-cheer  but 
don't  inebriate.' 

"You  have  turned  two  dull  summers  into 
pleasant  and  profitable  ones,'  she  continued, 
'and  by  the  end  of  the  season  your  pupil  in 
literature  and  drawing  will  demand  a  diploma 
from  the  Hanford  Summer  School.' 

"  'The  Hanford  Summer  School,  as  you  call  it, 
Miss  Kathleen,'  I  answered  quietly,  'will  close 
its  sessions  to-day  for  good.' 

'"What  do  you  mean?'  she  demanded,  with 
the  slightest  perceptible  start. 

"  'Merely  that  my  work  is  complete.  I  think 
that  I  have  found  what  I  came  for,  and  I  must 
go  back  to  Boston  as  quickly  as  I  can,  to  work 
Tip  my  data.  I  have  postponed  telling  you 
because-well,  I  couldn't  bear  to  do  it,  that's 
all.' 

"The  sun  was  sinking  in  a  gorgeous  bank  of 
clouds  across  the  lake.  Kathleen  put  away  her 
sketching  materials.  She  was  very  quiet. 

;"We  shall  say  goodby  to-night,  Miss  Kath- 
leen,' I  continued,  as  we  started  homeward,  'in 
public,  at  your  house,  but  while  we  are  alone  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  count  the  hours  we  have 
spent  together  as  the  most  delightful  I  have 
known.  I  realize  that  I  have  failed,  perhaps 


71 

through  temperament  and  age,  to  be  of— of  ab- 
sorbing interest  to  you,  but  that  doesn't  alter 
my  sentiments  or  my  enjoyment  of  the  society 
of  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  accomplished 
girls  in  Vermont' 

"  'The  Flattery  Course  in  the  Hanford  Summer 
School  is  short  but  violent,'  said  Kathleen. 
'Omit  the  compliments,  please,  Mr.  Hanford. 
We  have  passed  some  delightful  hours  together 
for  two  summers.  You  have  played  the  role  of 
Old  Man  to  your  own  satisfaction,  and  now 
that  the  curtain  is  rung  down  we  will  part  good 
friends.  Is  there  any  probability  that  the  Young 
Girl  in  Vermont  will  ever  again  see  the  Old 
Man  from  Boston?'  Her  tone  had  become  light 
and  careless. 

"  'If  his  affairs  prosper,  yes,'  I  replied.  A 
feeling  of  intense  disappointment  and  bitter- 
ness came  over  me  as  I  answered,  and  there 
was  silence  for  some  minutes  as  we  walked 
beside  each  other. 

"Somehow  a  sudden  coolness,  unknown  be- 
fore, unexpected  now,  had  sprung  up  between 
us.  With  it  came  the  sudden  realization  that 
I  loved  the  girl  beside  me,  and  with  an  in- 
tensity before  undreamed  of. 

"A  moment  later  we  reached  the  west  gate 
of  the  Milbank  lawn. 

"  'Kathleen,'  I  said,  impetuously,  taking  the 
hand  she  held  out  as  she  turned  to  complete 


72 

her  careless  farewell,  'whatever  you  think  of 
me,  don't  let  us  part  like  this.  I  have  been 
the  pastime  of  a  summer  day  for  you.  It  has 
been  more  than  that  to  me— more  than  I  have 
dared  to  think  or  say,  and  now  that  the  day  is 
over,  we  part,  and  apparently  you  have  not  even 
enough  interest  to  be  kind,'  I  added  bitterly. 

"I  felt  her  hand  tremble  in  my  grasp.  She 
drew  it  away  as  I  paused,  and  before  I  guessed 
her  purpose,  unpinned  a  bit  of  goldenrod  which 
she  had  worn  on  our  excursion,  laid  it,  silver 
pin.  and  all,  in  my  hand,  and  with  one  blushing, 
radiant  glance,  was  gone." 

Hanford  stopped  his  narrative  and  walked  to 
the  window.  He  seemed  overcome  by  the 
thronging  memories  which  his  story  recalled. 

"Well?"  said  Watson  interrogatively,  at 
length. 

"There  isn't  any  'well'  about  it,"  rejoined 
Hanford  irritably.  "That's  all." 

"All?" 

"Yes.  I  called  that  evening  to  bid  the  family 
goodby,  and  Miss  Kathleen  was  invisible.  She 
sent  a  cordial  farewell  by  her  mother. 

"The  next  morning  I  left  for  Boston,  where  I 
learned  that  while  my  researches  had  been 
partially  successful,  the  syndicate  had  not. 

"Their  disagreements  were  brought  to  a  head 
by  the  failure  and  death  of  the  principal  pro- 
moter of  the  plan;  the  whole  scheme  fell 


73 

through,  and  I  found  myself  with  considerable 
arrears  of  salary  and  expenses,  completely  with- 
out redress,  nor  was  I  ever  able  afterward  to 
collect  a  cent,  for  the  contract  proved  defective. 

"Thus  handicapped  and  deeply  discouraged,  I 
came  to  New  York,  abandoned  my  profession, 
and  took  the  first  employment  that  offered.  It 
brought  me  neither  honor  nor  money;  merely 
existence.  My  pride  prevented  explanations  to 
Kathleen.  Of  course,  I  was  not  able  to  visit  her, 
and  though  I  wrote  her  at  intervals,  our  letters 
were  not  satisfactory.  The  years  that  followed 
were  years  of  sharp  conflict  for  me— years  of  un- 
remitting toil  and  much  privation.  I  became 
engrossed  in  my  business  ventures,  and  only 
within  the  last  three  months  have  I  begun  to 
see  myself  master  of  my  own  affairs.  I  had 
struggled  and  saved,  educated  my  two  sisters 
and  won  independence  for  myself.  At  length 
I  could  do  justice  to  my  own  yearnings,  which 
were  ever  toward  Kathleen,  but  to-night,  re- 
turning to  my  apartment,  I  found  an  invita- 
tion to  her  wedding." 

Hanford  paused  a  moment  to  recover  his 
composure. 

"That's  all,  Watson,"  he  concluded.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  inflict  it  on  you  at  such  length,  but 
somehow  it  told  itself.  All  but  my  own  feel- 
Ings.  A  man  who  sees  the  hopes,  plans  and 
dreams  of  his  life  suddenly  swept  out  of  ex- 
istence can't  describe  them  as  they  go. 


74 

"Now,  you  can  moralize,  old  fellow.  There 
may  be  some  vivisection,  as  you  call  it,  but  never 
mind,  go  ahead,  for  two  weeks  from  to-mor- 
row," he  added  bitterly,  "Kathleen  Milbank  will 
be  some  one  else's  wife." 

Watson  made  no  immediate  reply.  His  friend 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  gloomy  silence, 
the  prey  to  a  swarm  of  unhappy  thoughts. 

"Hanford,  do  you  want  to  know  what  I  think 
of  you?"  asked  Watson,  at  length. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"You  are  about  as  big  a  fool  as  I  ever  met." 

"Why?"  asked  his  friend  humbly. 

"Because  the  wreck  of  your  happiness  is  en- 
tirely your  own  fault.  You  won  the  love  of  a 
sweet  girl,  said  nothing  more,  and  left  her.  Then 
you  plunged  into  business  with  varying  success. 
You  forgot  that  she  had  time  for  thought. 
Underneath,  you  cherished  a  genuine  affection, 
which  you  proposed  to  bring  out  properly  capari- 
soned, when  you  were  ready,  and  somehow  ex- 
pected to  find  the  girl  waiting.  Instead,  you  are 
surprised  to  learn  that  she  belongs  to  another." 

"It's  an  old  story,  I  suppose,"  said  Hanford 
gloomily. 

"Perhaps  it  is,  but  it  wouldn't  be  such  an  old 
story  if  people  used  a  little  common-sense,  as  I 
said  when  we  began." 

"Hang  your  common-sense,"  exclaimed  Han- 
ford irritably.  "It's  easy  for  a  man  without  a 


75 

love  affair  to  moralize  to  a  man  who  has  one. 
The  whole  realm  of  sentiment  is  built  on  the 
opposite  idea.  A  common-sense  Cupid  couldn't 
exist." 

"A  common-sense  statement  of  your  case  is 
this,"  continued  Watson,  ignoring  the  interrup- 
tion. "You  loved  a  girl,  and  you  had  reason  to 
believe  she  loved  you,  but  your  affairs  would  not 
permit  you  to  marry  her  speedily.  Common- 
sense  and  common  justice  demanded  that  you 
have  a  plain  talk  with  her,  and  if  she  loved  you 
and  was  any  kind  of  a  girl,  she  would  stick  to  you 
for  years,  waiting  till  you  were  able  to  marry 
her." 

"It  would  have  been  unjust  to  Kathleen  to  pin 
her  down  lo  an  uncertain  future  like  mine," 
urged  Hanford. 

"Not  if  she  loved  you.  That  isn't  a  woman's 
way  of  arguing.  Time  enough  to  release  her 
when  you  had  tried  and  failed.  Your  failure 
to  be  sensible  has  worked  injustice  to  you 
both.  Talk  of  your  feelings,  Hanford;  what 
have  hers  been  during  these  years  while  faith 
in  you  turned  slowly  to  doubt  and  anxiety, 
and  that  to  bitterness  and  indifference?" 

Hanford  winced. 

"These  are  the  might  have  beens,"  continued 
Watson,  noting  his  advantage.  "Merely  the 
common-sense  Cupid  you  jeer  at,  applied  to  the 
past;  now  what  of  the  future?'  Watson  arose. 


76 

"Arthur  Hanford,"  he  said  with  an  earnest- 
ness that  his  friend  had  never  before  seen  him 
exhibit,  "I  said  at  the  outset  that  I  wouldn't 
pretend  to  advise  a  man  on  a  current  love  affair. 
I  do  pretend  to  advise  you  now,  for  there  is  a  high 
and  manly  duty  before  you.  Mark  this  well. 
One  of  two  conditions  exists  at  this  moment. 
Either  Miss  Kathleen,  disgusted  by  years  of 
neglect  and  waiting,  has  forgotten  you  com- 
pletely and  turned  to  others,  or  else  she  still 
cares  for  you,  but  has  become  discouraged  by 
your  neglect  and  yielded  to  the  importunities 
of  another.  You've  treated  the  girl  shamefully, 
and  now  you  have  reached  a  crisis  in  her  life 
and  yours.  It's  your  duty  to  see  her  and  to  see 
her  now.  Tell  her  all— your  trials,  privations 
and  faith. 

"If  she  is  immovable,  and  annoyed  at  your  ad- 
vances, you've  proved  to  your  own  satisfaction 
that  her  love  for  you  is  at  length  completely 
dead,  and  whatever  your  own  feelings,  you  will 
at  least  be  absolved  from  the  responsibility  of 
having  destroyed  her  happiness  by  your  con- 
duct. On  the  other  hand,  if  by  any  possibility 
she  should  still  cherish  your  image  in  her  heart, 
you  can  save  her  from  a  life  of  sorrow  and  win 
your  own  happiness  besides." 

"The  cards  are  already  out,  Watson,"  falter- 
ed Hanford,  deeply  agitated. 

"That  means  hours   and  days  to  spare,"  re- 


77 

torted  Watson,  with  an  intensity  that  fired 
his  friend.  "I  am  a  plain,  blunt  man,  Arthur 
Hanford,  but  I  see  a  duty  when  it  lies  before 
me  as  plainly  as  yours,  and  in  this  case  it  is 
partially  a  question  of  honorable  dealing.  There 
is  only  one  course  to  pursue.  I  could  hardly 
respect  you  or  even  speak  to  you  if  you  didn't 
follow  it.  That  isn't  a  threat,  old  fellow,"  he 
added  in  a  gentler  tone,  throwing  his  arm  upon 
his  friend's  shoulder  in  the  half-caress  which 
a  man  sometimes  uses  to  another.  "I  know  you 
too  well,  Hanford,  to  doubt  you.  You  are  a 
strong-willed,  true-hearted  man.  The  very  rec- 
ord of  your  devotion  to  Miss  Milbank  proves 
it.  There  is  your  duty;  you  will  follow  it,  and 
just  suppose— mind,  I  don't  think  it  probable, 
but  then— goodby,  and  good  luck." 

For  an  hour  by  the  little  French  clock  Arthur 
Hanford  struggled  with  his  own  despondency, 
but  when  Watson  arose  in  the  morning  he  found 
a  card  beneath  the  door  and  on  it  was  penciled: 

"Dear  Watson:  Have  taken  morning  train. 
Will  telegraph  you.  A.  H." 


H. 

Hanford  had  ample  time  for  reflection  dur- 
ing the  long  hours  of  that  Tuesday  in  late  Sep- 
tember as  the  train  rolled  northward. 

He  was  not  averse  to  reflection.    There  have 


78 

been  a  few  master  minds  of  lightning  action. 
Doubtless  some  still  exist  capable  of  grasping 
a  complex  situation  without  reflection  and 
adapting  themselves  to  any  emergency,  but 
most  of  us  prefer  an  opportunity  to  withdraw 
the  scattered  forces  of  the  brain  from  the  field 
of  battle,  and  to  reorganize  their  broken  ranks 
in  preparation  for  new  conflicts. 

Hanford  had  fallen  into  a  method  of  thought 
regarding  his  affairs  of  sentiment  which  was 
now  sadly  shattered.  He  had  trained  himself 
for  years  to  a  policy  of  repression.  Accompany- 
ing this  had  grown  up  the  vague  belief  that 
when  his  own  wishes  could  be  considered  and 
he  could  make  them  known,  everything  would 
come  out  satisfactorily. 

The  violence  of  the  shock  attested  how  far 
this  idea  had  become  rooted  in  his  mind. 

His  friend's  aggressive  advice,  and  his  un- 
wonted earnestness  in  urging  it,  had  added 
another  host  of  considerations,  and  now  for  the 
first  time,  with  the  rush  of  the  train  and  the 
knowledge  that  action  of  some  sort  lay  before, 
came  comparative  tranquillity  and  the  opportu- 
nity to  set  his  mind  In  order  for  the  new  con- 
flict. 

Doubtless  Hanford's  thoughts  were  not  all 
of  the  common-sense  order.  Perhaps  even 
Watson  would  not  have  expected  that.  Cer- 
tainly the  contending  emotions  which  arise  from 


79 

such  an  experience  greatly  influence  thought 
and  conduct,  and  make  it  difficult  to  follow  a 
logical  course. 

Out  of  the  throng  of  thoughts  which  crowded 
upon  him  came  the  increasing  conviction  that 
however  conscientious  and  self-sacrificing  he 
had  been,  his  policy  had  been  a  fatally  erro- 
neous one.  This  brought  the  twin  conviction 
that  his  friend's  advice  was  sound,  and  that  he 
was  now  following  a  plain  duty. 

Intent,  however,  upon  avoiding  another  blow 
such  as  he  had  received,  Hanford  assured  him- 
self again  and  again  that  he  had  not  the  slight 
est  hope  of  his  own  success.  Things  had  gone 
too  far  for  that.  His  journey  was  solely  to 
justify  his  own  conduct  and  assure  himself 
of  Kathleen's  happiness. 

The  mind,  however,  is  a  headstrong  servant. 
We  do  not  always  realize  the  hopes  it  cherishes 
until  their  destruction  brings  us  pain. 

Having  decided  the  question  of  his  past  con- 
duct against  himself,  and  approved  with  in- 
creasing heartiness  of  the  trip  he  had  under- 
taken, Hanford  set  himself  to  outlining  a  plan 
of  campaign.  Wearied  at  length  with  the  in- 
numerable possibilities  liable  to  arise  and  over- 
throw any  set  scheme,  he  arranged  a  simple 
programme  to  produce  opportunity,  and  deter- 
mined to  let  everything  else  arise  spontaneously 
from  his  sense  of  honor,  manliness  and  affection. 


80 

The  trip  at  length  drew  to  a  close,  and  in  the 
twilight  of  the  shortening  fall  day  Lyndon  was 
reached.  In  the  early  morning,  before  leaving 
the  city,  Hanford  had  visited  a  fashionable  flor- 
ist on  Broadway  and  secured  a  box  of  the 
finest  orchids  obtainable  upon  such  a  hasty  order 
and  had  had  them  packed  with  extreme  care.  This 
box,  which  he  had  jealously  guarded  throughout 
the  trip  from  officious  porters,  he  addressed  to 
Miss  Kathleen  Milbank,  and  as  the  train  stopped 
he  intercepted  the  station  agent  as  that  worthy 
was  about  to  attack  the  baggage-car  and  said: 

"Can  you  deliver  a  package  for  me  this  even- 
ing with  absolute  certainty  if  I  pay  you  enough 
twice  over?" 

"I  guess  there  ain't  much  doubt  about  it,"  an- 
swered the  surprised  agent,  forgetting  the  bag- 
gage-car for  the  moment. 

"Here's  the  money,"  said  Hanford,  passing  a 
liberal  fee  into  the  agent's  hand.  "Deliver  this 
box  to  Miss  Milbank  this  evening— at  the  earli- 
est moment  you  can  after  this  train  leaves. 
Can  I  depend  on  you?" 

"You  can.    I'll  give  it  to  her  myself." 

Hanford's  first  move  was  made.  He  returned 
to  the  train  and  went  on  to  Burlington,  where 
he  sought  a  hotel  and  much-needed  repose. 

Early  that  evening  Miss  Kathleen  Milbank 
examined  with  surprise  and  delight  the  exquisite 
contents  of  Hanford's  box.  Within  it  she  found 
this  note: 


81 

"My  Dear  Miss  Kathleen.  The  invitation  to 
your  wedding  has  reached  me  just  as  I  am 
starting  for  Montreal  on  business. 

"Permit  me  to  offer  these  flowers  as  an  ad- 
vance-guard of  innumerable  good  wishes  which 
I  am  anxious  to  express  in  person.  I  know  how 
occupied  you  must  be,  but  may  I  have  an  hour 
with  you  to-morrow  afternoon,  for  an  oldtime 
walk  and  chat? 

"I  shall  be  in  Burlington  all  the  morning,  and 
a  dispatch  will  reacn  me  at  the  Van  Ness. 

"Faithfully,  ARTHUR  HANFORD." 

Emerging  from  breakfast  the  next  morning  a 
telegram  was  handed  to  him.  It  read: 

"Shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  as  proposed  at 
3  o'clock.  K.  M." 

The  early  afternoon  found  Hanford  strolling 
up  the  familiar  shaded  walk  to  the  Governor's 
house,  outwardly  calm,  but  keenly  realizing  how 
much  depended  on  the  events  of  that  afternoon. 
A  gentle  breeze  moved  in  the  treetops,  and  the 
soft  haze  of  September  hung  over  the  landscape. 
A  moment  more  and  he  found  himself  in  the 
well-remembered  parlors,  h^ard  a  light  step  on 
the  stair,  and  Kathleen  Milbank  stood  before 
him  with  the  cordial,  unaffected  greeting  of  an 
old  friend. 

To  Hanford's  eager  glance  she  had  changed 
little.  The  years  had  brought  maturity  to  face 
and  figure,  which  more  than  bore  out  the  pleas- 
ing promise  of  her  youth.  Her  large  blue  eyes 
beneath  delicately  arched  brows  still  looked  as 


frankly  forth  upon  the  world  as  they  did  in 
girlhood,  and  the  singular  charm  of  voice  and 
manner,  which  had  made  her  a  favorite  in  the 
village  from  her  earliest  years,  was  still  ap- 
parent, though  softened  by  an  indefinable  dig- 
nity and  maturity.  She  wore  a  pink  dress  of 
some  soft  summer  material,  and  a  large  white 
hat  trimmed  with  pink  roses.  So  hearty  and  un- 
embarrassed was  Kathleen's  greeting  as  Han- 
ford  stepped  forward  and  took  her  hand  that  he 
vaguely  wondered  whether  it  would  not  have 
been  better  strategy  to  have  surprised  her  and 
thus  have  been  able  perhaps  to  gather  some 
clew  to  her  feelings  from  her  deportment.  "It 
is  all  useless,  though,"  he  thought,  bitterly.  "I 
have  sunk  to  the  low  level  of  a  casual  acquaint- 
ance, and  must  be  careful  lest  my  call  outlives 
my  welcome." 

"That  exquisite  box  which  reached  me  last 
evening,  Mr.  Hanford,"  said  Kathleen,  "was  a 
delightful  surprise,  not  only  in  the  contents,  but 
in  the  prospect  it  brought  for  to-day,  and  you 
see  I  have  my  hat  on  already  in  anticipation. 
Our  old  haunts  are  all  the  same,  except  May- 
nard's  wharf,  which  caved  in  three  winters 
ago." 

"How  about  the  bluff?"  asked  Hanford.  "Is 
there  a  summer  hotel  there  yet?" 

"Your  inquiry  is  a  year  early,"  replied  Kath- 
Jeen,  laughing;  "the  bluff  has  been  sold,  and 


88 

there  is  to  be  a  big  hotel  erected  there  next 
spring." 

"I  hope  they  haven't  begun  work  yet,"  inter- 
posed Hanford,  anxiously,  "for  I  confess  to  a 
weakness  for  the  bluff.  Is  it  still  the  same?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Kathleen.  "I  seldom  or 
never  go  there." 

In  a  vague,  indefinite  way  Hanford  felt 
pleased. 

"Suppose  we  walk  in  that  direction,  anyway," 
he  suggested. 

"Gladly,"  she  answered,  arising;  "but  you 
must  first  let  my  mother  and  sister  welcome 
you,  and  promise  to  remain  to  supper  with  us." 

A  few  moments  later  they  were  strolling  along 
the  well-remembered  path  to  the  lake.  Hanford 
was  conscious  that  he  himself  had  improved  in 
the  years  which  had  elapsed  since  their  parting. 
Success  is  a  great  factor  in  any  one's  deport- 
ment. Under  it  a  small-minded  man  grows 
pompous,  but  to  a  man  of  cultured  sensibilities 
success  brings  the  confidence  required  to  com- 
plete good  manners.  Hanford  belonged  to  the 
latter  class.  His  deportment,  always  that  of  a 
gentleman,  had  measurably  improved  in  ease 
and  grace. 

There  was  much  to  talk  about,  even  had  they 
avoided  reminiscences.  Hanford  answered 
Kathleen's  kindly  inquiries  about  himself  cour- 
teously but  briefly— that  subject  would  come  up 
later. 


84 

"I  wrote  you,  Miss  Kathleen,"  he  said,  "that 
I  wanted  to  deliver  my  congratulations  to  you 
in  person,  and  now  that  I  try  to  do  so,  your 
welfare  is  so  dear  to  me  that  I  hardly  know 
how  to  express  with  sufficient  earnestness  my 
hope  for  its  continuance  and  your  life-long  happi- 
ness." 

"I  appreciate  what  you  say,  Mr.  Hanford," 
said  Kathleen,  quietly.  "I  expect  to  be  very 
happy.  Colonel  Ware  is  a  noble,  generous- 
hearted  man.  He  is  much  older  than  I,  but 
his  devotion  is  unwavering,  and  I  am  proud  to 
have  won  his  affection.  Unfortunately  he  is  an 
Englishman,  and  lives  in  Toronto,  which  greatly 
grieves  my  father,  but  one  cannot  control  mat- 
ters of  sentiment.  They  are  his  only  faults,  I 
believe." 

"Not  serious,"  said  Hanford,  pleasantly.  Then 
skilfully  turning  the  conversation,  he  asked 
numberless  questions  about  village  celebrities. 
Some  had  been  dead  long,  but  Kathleen  re- 
lated with  much  animation  events  which  had 
befallen  the  others,  and  their  odd  characteristics. 
Her  clever  descriptions  and  keen  sense  of  humor 
compelled  many  pauses  and  much  laughter,  till 
it  seemed  to  Hanford  as  they  strolled  on  through 
sunshine  and  shadow  as  though  a  day  were 
being  lived  over  from  the  old  days  which  his 
memory  cherished  so  tenderly.  Talk  of  indi- 
viduals led  to  recalling  old  events,  and  many  an 


85 

excursion  and  adventure  was  laughed  over  and 
recounted. 

"Do  you  remember,  Miss  Kathleen,  that  trip 
we  took  to  Bowman's  Pond  for  black  bass,  and 
how  on  the  way  over  I  stole  a  tintype  of  the 
Boston  boy  you  had  flirted  with  at  boarding- 
school,  and  would  not  give  it  back  because  I  de- 
clared that  one  beau  at  once  was  enough?" 

"Indeed  I  do,"  laughed  Kathleen. 

"And  how  I  put  the  picture  in  my  coat  pocket 
and  left  the  coat  beside  the  lunch  basket  on 
shore,  while  we  went  fishing  in  an  old  scow,  and 
when  we  came  back  we  found  a  tramp  had 
stolen  the  lunch  and  my  coat,  too,  so  that  I  had 
to  walk  home  in  my  shirt  sleeves,  and  you 
laughed  all  the  way,  and  declared  that  there  was 
no  honor  among  thieves  because  one  thief  had 
been  robbed  by  another  thief?" 

Kathleen's  laugh  had  the  same  old  mischiev- 
ous ring  as  she  recalled  Hanford's  coatless  fig- 
ure. 

"I've  often  thought  of  it,"  she  said,  breath- 
lessly. 

"What's  become  of  the  Boston  boy,  Miss  Kath- 
leen?" 

"How  should  I  know,  Mr.  Hanford;  that  was 
ten  years  ago." 

"So  you've  forgotten  him?" 

"Ages  ago." 

"Have  all  your  lovers  shared  that  dreadful 
fate,  Miss  Kathleen?' 


86 

"I'm  afraid  they  have,"  she  answered,  care- 
lessly. 

A  sudden  chill  struck  Hanford  to  the  heart, 
but  he  gave  no  sign  of  emotion. 

"No  remembrance,  and  no  pity,  I  suppose,"  he 
said. 

"I  have  not  observed  that  they  need  any." 

The  lake  shore  had  been  reached  some  min- 
utes before,  and  they  were  now  walking  along 
the  bluff,  with  Kathleen  slightly  in  advance.  It 
seemed  to  Hanford  as  he  looked  at  the  lithe, 
well-poised  figure  before  him  as  though  he  could 
not  give  her  up.  All  things  in  heaven  and 
earth  were  shut  out  by  one  overmastering  de- 
sire. Upon  the  highest  point  of  the  bluff  four 
elms  still  stood  just  within  the  old,  grass-grown 
earthworks.  Under  their  welcome  branches 
Kathleen  and  Hanford  had  many  times  found 
shelter  in  days  gone  by.  Hanford  made  a  seat 
with  a  mossy  stone  for  the  back  for  his  com- 
panion, and  threw  himself  on  the  turf  at  her 
feet.  The  memory  of  their  last  visit  to  the 
spot  affected  him  powerfully,  and  perhaps  even 
Kathleen  recalled  it,  for  she  also  was  silent. 

Already  the  declining  sun  had  begun  the  close 
of  a  perfect  day.  The  morning's  sapphire  blue 
of  lake  and  mountain  had  vanished.  Across 
the  wide  sweep  of  water  lay  an  ever-moving 
pathway  of  gold,  and  beyond  the  far  Adirondack 
peaks  seemed  clouded  in  a  golden  haze.  Here 


87 

and  there  a  bit  of  white  cloud  relieved  the  deep 
blue  of  the  sky.  In  the  far  distance  to  the 
south  two  blunt-prowed  schooners  were  slowly 
tacking  down  the  lake.  The  only  sound  that 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  afternoon  was  the 
measured  ripple  of  tiny  waves  along  the  rocky 
edge  of  the  bluff. 

Hanford  broke  the  silence. 

"Tell  me  of  yourself,"  he  said. 

"There  is  little  to  tell,"  she  answered.  "I  spent 
three  years  after  you  left  in  school  and  college, 
then  two  years  in  travel  abroad,  and  since  have 
lived  quietly  at  home,  occupied  with  household 
duties  and  occasional  visits  to  Toronto,  Washing- 
ton and  Boston." 

"You  make  it  an  uneventful  record,  Miss 
Kathleen." 

"It  is." 

"Hardly  so  colorless  as  that,  I  think.  You 
know  we  used  to  be  confidants,"  he  added, 
smiling. 

"Habits  fallen  into  disuse  for  a  decade  cannot 
be  lightly  resumed,  Mr.  Hanford.  Ten  years 
mean  change  to  us  alL  You,  for  example, 
changed  many  years  ago." 

Hanford  colored  at  this  thrust. 

"You  asked  me  about  myself  a  little  while 
ago,  Miss  Kathleen,"  he  said  gravely,  "and  I 
said  little  in  reply.  Now  that  you  charge  me 
with  change,  and  thus  have  implied  inconstancy, 


it  is  but  justice  to  myself  to  speak  more  freely 
of  my  life  than  you  have  spoken  of  yours.  I 
grant  that  I  have  changed.  I  have  attained  a 
man's  estate  in  capacity  for  affairs,  in  knowledge 
of  life  and  in  experience.  In  matters  of  heart 
and  sentiment  no  man  was  ever  more  true,  un- 
changed and  unchanging.  Ten  years  ago  I  left 
this  town  bubbling  over  with  a  young  man's 
confidence  and  happiness.  I  had  won  your  love, 
though  before  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  for  it,  and 
I  had  found  the  object  of  my  professional  re- 
search, thus  insuring  liberal  reward.  I  intended 
to  bring  the  business  part  to  a  quick  and  happy 
termination,  and  then  to  seek  you  and  reach  the 
understanding  not  touched  in  our  last  talk.  Alaa 
for  human  plans!  I  found  my  triumphant  re- 
port coldly  received.  Quarrels  and  death  pre- 
vented further  action,  and  I  was  not  only  cheated 
out  of  my  reward,  but  I  could  not  collect  my  ex- 
pense account  and  salary.  Thus  I  suddenly  found 
myself  with  the  tables  completely  turned,  and 
actually  in  debt.  I  cannot  tell  you  of  my  suffer- 
ings during  the  month  I  lingered  in  Boston.  I 
tried  to  make  my  letters  to  you  cheerful  and  in- 
teresting, but  their  forced  nature  must  have  made 
them  hollow.  About  that  time  my  mother  died, 
leaving  my  two  younger  sisters  in  my  charge, 
and  when  at  length  I  had  settled  her  affairs 
and  placed  my  sisters  with  a  relative,  guaran- 
teeing their  expenses,  I  found  myself  in  New 


York  with  but  $11  in  the  world.  I  had  no  friends 
in  the  city,  but  I  started  out  to  find  employment. 
My  profession  seemed  filled.  In  no  direction 
could  I  find  an  opening.  Work  I  must  and 
would.  It  came  at  length  in  humble  form,  and 
for  five  weeks,  Miss  Kathleen,  I  swept  out  a 
grocery  store  and  delivered  parcels.  I  cannot 
describe  the  discouragement  and  gloom  of  that 
period.  It  was  then  I  failed  to  write  you,  and 
you  chided  me  for  neglect.  Heaven  knows 
your  memory  grew  bright  as  my  own  perplex- 
ities and  sorrows  increased.  Later  I  secured  a 
humble  position  in  a  broker's  office.  It  brought 
a  mere  pittance,  but  my  sisters  received  their 
allowance  without  a  break.  They  never  knew 
what  it  cost  me  to  send  it.  I  lived  practically 
in  a  garret,  and  for  more  than  a  year  I  ate 
meat  but  once  a  week,  so  rigidly  did  I  econo- 
mize. Do  you  wonder  that  when  my  poor, 
parched  nature  turned  to  far  away  Vermont 
and  the  girl  I  loved  unfalteringly,  and  con- 
trasted your  luxurious  surroundings  and  my 
own  condition,  that  I  grew  sick  at  heart?  'Not 
yet,'  I  kept  repeating,  'Not  yet.'  At  length  my 
employers  began  to  notice  my  attention  to  duty 
and  I  was  slowly  advanced.  It  then  became 
necessary  to  educate  my  sisters,  for  I  determined 
they  should  have  the  advantages  their  birth 
demanded.  My  own  debts,  incurred  unjustly  for 
others,  were  still  unpaid,  remember,  but  I  pushed 


90 

steadfastly  forward.  Day  and  night  I  labored, 
and  year  by  year  I  slowly  advanced.  Last 
month  found  me  free  of  debt.  One  sister  was 
married  in  June.  The  other  is  engaged,  and  is 
now,  besides,  self-supporting.  As  for  myself, 
two  weeks  ago  the  firm  made  me  a  junior  part- 
ner. I  have  taken  no  vacations  beyond  a  day 
here  and  there  with  my  sisters,  and  it  all  seems 
to  me,  as  I  look  back  upon  it,  one  long,  un- 
ending stretch  of  labor.  During  all  this  time 
my  love  for  you  was  a  thing  apart  from  common 
life.  Other  women  were  nothing  to  me,  and  I 
kept  saying  to  myself,  'When  I  am  free  I  will 
go  to  Kathleen  and  tell  her  all'  " 

Hanford's  voice  faltered  and  he  paused  a  mo- 
ment 

"You  must  not  tell  me  this,"  said  Kathleen, 
struggling  to  preserve  her  ordinary  tone.  She 
was  unconsciously  leaning  forward  toward  Han- 
ford,  and  nervously  twisting  a  bit  of  grass  to 
shreds. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  said  with  an  intensity 
that  permitted  no  opposition. 

"When  at  length  my  business  affairs  shaped 
themselves  satisfactorily  my  thoughts  turned  to 
you,  for  at  last  I  was  free.  Monday  I  deter- 
mined to  write  you  fully,  and  on  returning  to  my 
apartment  that  evening  I  found  the  invitation 
to  your  wedding." 

Again  Hanford  stopped  as  the  recollection  of 
that  evening  came  over  him. 


91 

Kathleen  was  silent.  With  parted  lips  and 
hands  unconsciously  folded,  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  far-away  hills  across  the  lake.  Han- 
ford's  frank  recital  of  his  experiences  and  his 
unwavering  devotion  came  like  a  revelation  to 
her  and  affected  her  deeply. 

"Of  course  my  own  hopes  were  entirely  swept 
away  by  the  news,"  continued  Hanford  quietly, 
"but  one  thought  remained  and  that  was  of 
your  happiness.  I  determined  to  take  advantage 
of  a  northern  trip  to  see  you,  and  to  ask  a 
question." 

"I  cannot  answer  any  questions,  Mr.  Hanford," 
interposed  Kathleen,  much  agitated.  "You  have 
no  right  to  ask  them  now,  and  I  have  no  right 
to  answer." 

"The  question  was  a  simple  one,  Miss  Kath- 
leen. I  felt  that  our  relations  in  the  past  and 
my  own  unfaltering  devotion  to  you  gave  me 
the  right  to  ask  it  without  presumption." 

"I  cannot  answer  your  question,  Mr.  Hanford," 
she  replied,  "but  after  what  you  have  just  told 
me  you  are  entitled  to  know  more  of  my  own 
life  and  thoughts  than  I  have  already  explained. 
The  story  is  not  a  long  one,  Mr.  Hanford,  nor 
is  it  pleasant.  Do  not  delude  yourself  with  the 
masculine  idea  that  you  have  done  all  the  suffer- 
ing. It  is  the  same  old  story,  of  a  woman  griev- 
ing In  silence  and  alone,  and  maintaining  an 
outward  cheerfulness.  Doubt,  anxiety  and  sor- 


92 

row,  and  their  concealment,  are  not  agreeable 
ten-year  companions." 

Hanford  started  at  her  unnoticed  admission. 
Kathleen's  tone  was  hard  and  bitter.  Her  face 
was  pale,  her  hands  tightly  clasped.  Long  re- 
pressed emotions  seemed  struggling  for  the 
mastery. 

"This  is  the  final  reckoning  between  us,  Arthur 
Hanford,"  she  continued  more  deliberately,  "and 
you  shall  know  the  truth.  When  we  parted  ten 
years  ago  I  loved  you  with  all  the  earnestness 
I  am  capable  of.  I  think  few  young  girls  of  that 
age  love  with  the  fidelity  and  devotion  that  I 
did.  You  made  the  sad  mistake  of  thinking  my 
affection  for  you  depended  upon  success.  Why, 
I  never  thought  of  success.  It  would  have  been 
a  mere  incident,  anyway.  No  true  woman  ever 
doubts  her  lover's  ultimate  success — whatever 
his  present  misfortunes— and  if  success  never 
comes,  her  woman's  heart  merely  grows  tenderer 
and  truer  to  console  him  in  defeat.  Your  letters,  so 
dear  to  me,  became  infrequent  and  they  sounded 
hollow.  My  pride  told  me  to  write  you  as  you 
wrote  me,  and  only  as  often.  As  for  my  feelings, 
you  must  search  your  own  suffering  to  under- 
stand mine.  I  finished  school  and  entered  col- 
lege, but  my  heart  was  not  in  it.  I  was  wait- 
ing and  watching  for  one  who  never  came.  My 
thoughts  were  here.  I  lived  over  and  over  the 
days  we  had  spent  together.  I  read  the  books 


we  had  read  together.  I  have  them  yet.  And 
all  this  time  I  lived  my  life  and  took  my  part 
in  the  events  about  me,  and  no  one  knew.  No 
one  but  my  mother,  she  knew  all.  She  urged 
me  to  forget  you.  She  said  you  were  untrue, 
and  even  if  you  were  not  you  were  unworthy 
of  me." 

Kathleen  paused.  Hanford  made  no  attempt 
to  answer.  His  face  looked  pale  and  drawn, 
as  though  her  simple  story  were  an  indictment 
of  his  mistaken  conduct  too  terrible  to  bear. 

"I  was  not  well  for  some  time,"  continued 
Kathleen,  "and  at  the  beginning  of  my  second 
year  at  college  I  became  seriously  ill.  I  was 
taken  from  my  studies  and  sent  to  Europe.  Oh, 
if  you  had  only  come  to  me  then,"  she  exclaimed 
vehemently,  as  memory  brought  back  the 
thoughts  of  old. 

"Kathleen,"  said  Hanford,  starting  eagerly. 

She  regained  her  composure  as  quickly  as  she 
had  lost  it. 

"Too  late,"  she  said  quietly.  "No  word  came 
from  you.  I  was  still  true,  but  doubt  and  anx- 
iety were  usurping  your  place,  and  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  growing  sense  of  anger.  My  own 
self-respect  and  pride  were  asserting  themselves. 
'What  right  has  this  man,'  I  kept  saying,  to 
blast  my  life,  and  bring  sorrow  by  reflection  to 
all  who  love  me?'  And  so  1  arose,  and  shook 
you  off,  Arthur  Hanford,  and  began  to  do  justice 


94 

to  myself.  Four  winters  ago,  in  the  south  of 
France,  I  met  Colonel  Ware.  His  attentions  be- 
came marked  at  once.  I  did  not  encourage 
them,  but,  unlike  many  others  in  previous  years, 
I  did  not  discourage  them.  I  longed  for  rest. 
The  remaining  years  have  been  years  of  in- 
creasing happiness.  I  had  shaken  off  the  old 
life,  and  found  a  new  one.  I  live  in  the  pres- 
ent, Mr.  Hanford,  not  in  the  past.  That  is  folded 
up  and  laid  away.  I  am  blameless,  unless,  per- 
haps, I  might  be  blamed  for  suffering  so  long. 
Not  so  with  you.  You  were  the  master.  You 
had  the  power  of  speech  or  silence.  The  mean- 
ing of  each  was  plain.  You  chose  silence.  Per- 
haps you  had  wishes  and  hopes.  Perhaps  it  was 
all  a  mistake.  Well,  the  result  is  here  before  us. 
We  cannot  change  it.  If  you  still  love  me  you 
must  bear  it  to  the  end.  You  have  brought  sor- 
row on  yourself  and  you  have— you  have" 

Kathleen  faltered  and  stopped. 

"I  have  what,  Kathleen?"  he  demanded. 

Again  she  recovered  herself,  and  altered  the 
sentence  that  was  growing  dangerous  for  her 
self-control. 

"You  have  cut  your  own  path,  and  you  must 
walk  in  it" 

Kathleen  arose. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Hanford,"  she  said  in  even 
tones,  "we  have  had  our  explanations.  You 
have  told  me  what  for  years  I  hoped  and  dreamed 


95 

and  did  not  know.  It  conies  too  late,  and  I  have 
told  yon— well,  Is  it  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear? 
The  explanations  are  over.  Have  they  profited 
either  of  us?  Come,  let  us  leave  this  place,"  she 
added  vehemently. 

Hanford  did  not  rise.  A  sudden  realization 
came  over  him  that  he  had  reached  the  end. 
The  furtive,  unnoticed  hope  which  had  buoyed 
him  up  on  his  journey  fell  away,  arid  left  a 
dreadful  sense  of  error  and  failure  through  all 
his  years  of  effort.  Overwhelmed,  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  his  strong  frame  shook 
convulsively. 

No  words  of  Arthur  Hanford,  had  he  pleaded 
till  old  age,  could  have  spoken  so  eloquently  to 
Kathleen  Milbank  as  the  bowed  and  quivering 
figure  of  the  man  she  had  loved  so  long  and 
faithfully.  Her  self-control  was  swept  away, 
and  she  kneeled  beside  him  on  the  turf,  an 
eager,  anxious  girL 

"Arthur,"  she  cried,  touching  his  arm,  "you 
must  not,  you  must  not.  Think  of  yourself— 
of — of  me.  We  must  not  give  way.  I  cannot 
stand  it.  Ask  any  question  you  wish,  but  please, 
please,  be  yourself." 

With  a  great  effort  Hanford  recovered  his 
composure. 

"The  story  of  your  life  and  mine  makes  one 
question  just,"  he  said.  "The  answer  to  it  be- 
longs to  us  both.  Kathleen,  do  you  love  the 
man  you  have  promised  to  marry?" 


Her  self-possession  deserted  her  now. 

"You  should  not  ask  that,"  she  murmured,  pale 
and  agitated. 

"I  should  ask  it,"  he  said,  relentlessly.  "An- 
swer, on  your  soul.  Do  you  love  him,  Kathleen?" 

"He  loves  me  far  more  than" 

Hanford  arose  and  stood  before  her.  "Kath- 
leen Milbank,"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  in- 
tensity that  thrilled  her,  "if  you  love  this  man, 
no  friend  of  yours  will  rejoice  more  earnestly 
at  your  happiness,  or  pray  more  unceasingly  for 
its  continuance  than  I.  But  if  you  cannot  say 
you  love  him,  as  you  and1 1  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  you  have  no  right  to  marry 
him,  for  if  you  do,  you  wrong  him  and  you 
wrong  yourself  for  life." 

Kathleen  was  very  pale.  She  made  no  effort 
now  to  go. 

"I  should  not  have  come  here  with  you,"  she 
said  helplessly. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  felt  a  strange  certainty  that  yon 
would  bring  this  subject  up." 

"Why  did  you  come,  then,  and  did  you  dread 
this  question?"  asked  Hanford. 

Kathleen's  will  made  one  last  stand. 

"I  cannot  answer  you,  Mr.  Hanford,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

He  would  not  yield. 

"Do  you  love  him,  Kathleen?"  he  urged, 


97 

No  armor  she  possessed  would  keep  that  dread- 
ful question  out.  There  were  traitors,  too,  with- 
in the  citadel,  for  her  own  heart  had  often 
asked  the  question  before.  She  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands  to  hide  the  rising  color. 

"Why  have  you  come  back,"  she  exclaimed 
passionately,  "you  ruined  my  happiness  for 
years,  and  as  I  struggle  to  regain  it  you  snatch 
it  away  again." 

"You  are  strangely  inconsistent,"  said  Han- 
ford,  quietly.  "I  said  at  the  outset  that  if  you 
really  loved  Colonel  Ware  my  own  feelings 
would  sink  instantly  out  of  sight,  and  you  should 
know  me  only  as  a  loyal,  steadfast  friend.  If  I 
seem  otherwise,  why  is  it?" 

Hanford  waited  a  moment  for  a  reply.  None 
came. 

"Kathleen,"  he  continued  deliberately,  "you 
cannot  meet  the  test.  You  do  not  love  the  man 
whom  you  are  about  to  marry." 

No  answer.  The  silence  that  followed  was 
broken  only  by  a  sob.  It  seemed  to  change 
them  both. 

"Does  he  know?"  asked  Hanford  gently,  at 
length. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.  "He  says  he  can  make 
me  love  him." 

"And  you  thought  he  could?" 

"Yes;  I  hoped  so." 

Hanford's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 


"Do  you  think  so,  now?'  he  asked. 

Kathleen's  slender  figure  trembled.  She  made 
no  answer. 

"Our  mementoes  of  each  other  and  the  old 
days,"  Hanford  went  on  without  pressing  a 
reply,  "were  not  numerous,  as  you  know,  Kath- 
leen, but  I  have  one  which  has  never  left  me, 
and  for  ten  years  has  been  the  shrine  of  my 
heart.  It  is  very  precious  to  me,  but  I  am 
going  to  return  it  to  you  now,  for  it  may  plead 
with  you  to  do  justice  to  yourself  and  to  me." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  little  worn  leather 
case,  and  placed  it  in  her  hand.  Kathleen 
opened  it  eagerly,  and  found  within  a  wisp  of 
withered  goldenrod,  clasped  in  a  tarnished  sil- 
ver pin. 

"Will  you  promise  me  on  that  token,  Kath- 
leen, that  you  will  not  marry  any  man  you  do 
not  love?"  Silence.  It  seemed  to  Hanford  as 
though  the  beating  of  his  heart  drowned  the 
ripple  of  the  waves. 

Kathleen  raised  her  frank  blue  eyes  to  his. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 


"Watson,  J.  D.?"  inquired  the  messenger  in- 
terrogatively, about  midnight. 

"Yes,  fourth  floor,"  answered  the  elevator 
man  in  no  pleasant  humor. 

"Youse  fellers,"  he  said,  as  they  went  up,  "is 
like  flies,  No  sleepin'  oil  account  of  yer.  Thirty- 


99 

seven,"  he  added  as  he  let  the  boy  out  of  the 
car  and  went  down  again.  The  messenger 
knocked  at  37. 

"Telegram  for  Watson,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  muffled  sound  within.  Watson 
opened  the  door,  and  took  the  envelope.  He 
tore  it  open  and  read: 

"The  common-sense  Cupid  won.  A.  H." 

"Watson's  got  a  jag  on,"  remarked  the  mes- 
senger to  the  elevator  man  five  minutes  later. 

"What,"  exclaimed  the  latter  in  astonishment. 
"It's  the  first  he's  had  in  this  house,  then." 

"Well,  he  gin  me  two  plunks.  If  it  tain't  a 
jag,  what  is  it?" 

"It  must  be  a  jag,"  said  the  elevator  man  re- 
flectively. 


finT  wS 


Che  Jfuction  Bonk. 

"You  ain't  the  only  one  that's  got  left,"  said 
the  station  agent  consolingly.  "There's  a  man 
inside  the  station— little  feller.  Looks  as  though 
he  mount  be  from  Lewisville  or  Cincinnatty. 
Reckon  you're  from  one  of  'em  yourself,  ain't 
yer?"  he  added  inquiringly. 

"I'm  from  New  York,"  I  said,  wondering 
vaguely  if  the  station  agent's  flannel  shirt  hadn't 
reached  the  age  limit  which  entitled  it  to  be  re- 
tired on  a  pension. 

He  was  a  man  of  perhaps  forty  years,  of 
large  frame  and  smooth-shaven  face.  One  cor- 
ner only  of  his  wide  mouth  was  utilized  for 
purposes  of  conversation  and  expectoration,  pos- 
sibly to  avoid  the  exertion  of  opening  it  all  at 
once — a  habit  which  imparted  a  whistling  sound 
to  the  conclusion  of  each  sentence. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  while  he  in- 
spected me  with  an  evident  accession  of  in- 
terest 


101 

"Be  you?"  he  said  at  length,  "Well  I'm  sorry 
you  got  left,  and  now  No.  3  is  in  trouble,  too." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"She's  due  at  9  o'clock,  but  I've  just  heard 
she's  three  hours  late  and  gettin'  later."  With 
which  comforting  news  he  etrolled  away.  With 
the  next  train  three  hours  late  and  getting  later, 
why  hurry? 

The  feeble  rays  of  a  half -obscured  October  sun- 
set were  strugging  across  the  station  platform, 
along  which  I  was  aimlessly  walking. 

Enforced  idleness  is  seldom  pleasant  to  a  busy 
man.  I  had  missed  my  railway  connections, 
and  found  myself  angry  but  powerless  on  the 
platform  of  a  little  railway  station  in  a  sparsely 
settled  mountain  county  of  Eastern  Kentucky. 

Perhaps  not  the  smallest  factor  in  my  dis- 
content was  the  knowledge  that  I  ought  not  to 
have  attempted  the  trip  at  all.  It  was  entirely 
my  partner's  suggestion. 

"See  here,  Van  Dunk,"  he  said  to  me  as  we 
were  discussing  the  firm's  affairs  one  morning 
of  the  previous  week,  "Colonel  Bibb  objects  to 
our  bill  for  his  book  on  'Kentucky  in  the  Re- 
bellion.' He  says  $24  for  alterations  Is  out- 
rageous; that  the  only  alteration  he  made  on  the 
whole  proof  was  to  add  an  's'  to  sassafras  in  the 
foot  note  on  Page  19.  He  says  that  he  won't 
pay  the  item.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  tore  his 
proof  to  pieces,  and  added  and  subtracted  ad 


102 

lib.  Here  is  all  tlie  data  and  somebody  ought 
to  go  and  prove  the  thing  to  him." 

"To  Kentucky?"  I  asked  incredulously. 

"To  Kentucky.  We  are  always  running  up 
against  alterations,  and  every  case  ought  to  be 
argued  out  with  the  customer." 

"It  strikes  me,"  I  remarked,  "that  it  would 
be  money  in  our  respective  pockets  to  yield  the 
whole  item  and  stay  home.  The  amount  in- 
volved is  $24,  and  the  trip  would  cost  $75,  leav- 
ing entirely  out  the  time  lost." 

"Van  Dunk,"  said  my  partner,  impressively, 
"we  are  young  men  building  for  the  future.  For 
the  sake  of  our  reputation  that  item  must  be 
argued,  and  the  Colonel  convinced  whatever  it 
costs.  My  domestic  affairs  make  it  impossible 
for  me  to  go.  You  are  the  man." 

Peace  must  be  preserved  in  the  business  fam- 
ily at  all  hazards,  and  I  reluctantly  started  for 
a  certain  small  out-of-the-way  village  in  Ken- 
tucky, in  no  pleasant  frame  of  mind,  prin- 
cipally anxious  to  have  the  argument  out  with 
the  military  Bibb  and  return,  and  here  I  was 
within  sixty  miles  of  the  Colonel's  home  and 
laid  up  indefinitely. 

I  looked  off  at  the  single  track  perspective, 
running  drearily  out  to  a  point  in  the  fast  grow- 
ing dusk,  and  tried  to  be  as  philosophical  as 
the  circumstances  permitted. 

There  was  absolutely  no  settlement  about  or 


103 

near  the  station,  unless  one  house  about  three 
hundred  yards  away  could  be  so  dignified.  The 
country  itself  was  not  unpleasing.  The  station 
stood  on  high  ground  that  sloped  gently  to  a 
small  river,  perhaps  half  a  mile  away,  and  easily 
seen.  On  the  other  side  the  country  was  rolling, 
broken  and  heavily  wooded,  the  background  of 
distant  hills  being  sharply  outlined  by  the  set- 
ting sun.  It  was  not  exactly  the  place  one  would 
select  for  a  long  stay,  and  the  chances  for  ac- 
commodation depended,  it  appeared,  on  the  one 
house,  where  doubtless  the  agent  resided. 

The  station  itself  lacked  the  customary  sights 
and  sounds.  There  were  no  engines,  no  belated 
freights,  no  arriving  passengers  and  baggage. 
Not  even  the  ever-present  small  boy  disturbed 
the  serenity  of  the  October  evening. 

For  a  weary  half  hour  I  paced  the  platform, 
watching  the  shadows  disappear  and  the  dim 
outline  of  the  river  grow  dimmer  and  fade.  As 
the  quiet  became  a  bit  oppressive,  and  the  inner 
man  began  to  make  demands,  I  decided  to  con- 
sult the  station  agent  about  refreshments  and 
possibly  accommodations.  The  other  passen- 
ger had  evidently  reached  the  same  conclusion, 
for  as  I  turned  toward  the  waiting-room  I  con- 
fronted my  fellow-unfortunate  and  the  agent  in 
conference. 

"This  is  the  other  passenger,"  said  the  latter 
to  me  as  I  approached.  "I  Just  told  him  you 


104 

'uns  could  come  over  to  my  house  to  supper. 
It's  the  only  house  around  here  yet,  and  you 
can  get  a  bite  there,  even  if  it  ain't  the  Springs. 
Will  you  come?" 

"With  pleasure,"  I  replied,  noticing  a  strange 
but  puzzling  familiarity  in  the  slight  figure  of 
the  other  passenger,  who  stood  dimly  outlined  in 
the  dusk.  He  was  evidently  struggling  with 
the  same  problem,  for  he  said  suddenly: 

"Aren't  you  Van  Dunk,  of  New  York?" 

"I  am,  and  you  are" 

"Binney,  pamphlet  binder  on  West  Broadway. 
Recollect,  old  man?" 

I  greeted  him  with  a  warmth  that  indicated 
my  extremity.  Although  a  small  man  there  was 
enough  of  Binney  to  go  a  great  way.  He  was 
one  of  those  men  whom  you  escape  when  you 
can,  and  regret  it  when  you  can't.  I  had  al- 
ways regarded  him  as  a  misfit  in  his  calling. 
He  was  delicate,  indolent  and  foppish,  possess- 
ing a  fondness  for  late  hours  and  large  rings, 
which  fitted  the  prosaic  and  hustling  require- 
ments of  a  pamphlet  bindery  about  as  appropri- 
ately as  a  monkey  at  a  funeral,  and  the  continued 
existence  and  fair  prosperity  of  his  establish- 
ment were  due  largely  to  a  plodding  and  faithful 
foreman,  who  did  business  when  Binney  did  not, 
that  is,  most  of  the  time. 

"What  on  earth  brings  you  here,  Binney?" 
I  asked  in  surprise. 


105 

"Business,"  he  answered  briskly.  "Same 
with  you,  old  man?" 

"Yes,"  I  gasped,  trying  to  take  in  the  thought 
that  business  could  draw  Binney  from  New 
York  to  Kentucky.  It  was  too  colossal  to  permit 
conversation  at  the  same  moment 

"It  will  be  a  good  10  o'clock  before  our  train 
comes,"  continued  the  little  man  rapidly,  ap- 
parently glad  to  get  away  from  explanations. 
"And  I  was  just  going  over  to  Mr.  Todd's  to  get 
a  bite.  I'm  mighty  glad  to  meet  a  friend.  So 
beastly  unexpected,  you  know.  Come  along,  old 
man." 

The  station  master's  house  was  a  long,  ram- 
bling, Kentucky  farmhouse,  which  in  one  spot 
reached  the  dignity  of  two  stories,  and  then 
relapsed  again  to  one.  He  had  been  born  in  the 
house,  he  told  us  on  the  way  over,  and  had  al- 
ways lived  there,  but  the  death  of  his  mother 
about  a  year  before  had  deprived  him  of  his 
family  relations  and  home  life. 

"  'Tain't  much  there  now,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically over  his  shoulder  to  me  as  we  walked 
in  single  file  along  the  rough  road,  thus  intensi- 
fying the  peculiar  whistle  with  which  he  talked. 
"You  see  ma  was  a  good  hand  about  the  house, 
but  the  gal  I  got  to  tend  to  me  and  John  ain't 
no  earthly  good.  I  reckon  she's  better'n  noth- 
in',  so  she  stays." 

It   seemed   to    me   she    was   several    degrees 


106 

worse  than  nothing,  when  I  saw  her,  a  few 
minutes  later  in  the  kitchen,  where  the  even- 
ing meal  was  being  spread. 

An  indescribable  and  accumulated  odor  of 
pork  fat  pervaded  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
long,  low-studded  apartment,  and  it  seemed  to 
have  settled  on  the  walls,  the  shelves  and  the 
dishes,  as  a  sort  of  greasy  grime.  Amid  these 
fragrant  surroundings  clattered  a  figureless  fe- 
male of  uncertain  age,  with  hair  half  fallen, 
and  slippers  half  on,  clapping  the  floor  like  bones 
at  each  step. 

While  she  completed  preparations  for  the  sup- 
per Binney  and  I  attacked  the  tin  hand  basin 
on  the  back  porch,  and  then  waited  outside. 

"There's  beehives  in  the  settin'-room,"  said 
the  station  master,  as  he  joined  us  outside,  and 
shut  the  door  to  drown  the  noise  of  frying. 
"Three  of  'em  was  empty,  and  we  put  'em  in 
there  for  the  winter.  We  don't  use  the  room 
any  more  now  ma's  gone.  Me  and  John  is 
over  to  the  station  or  on  the  farm  most  of  the 
time."  John  appeared  at  that  moment  and  an- 
nounced supper.  "The  gal,"  having  pitched  the 
dishes  on  the  table  in  utter  confusion,  was  al- 
ready seated  herself,  and  eating  when  we 
entered.  The  station  master  took  what  seemed 
to  be  the  head  of  the  table,  if  one  ignored  the 
dishes,  which  were  strewn  more  thickly  about 
me  than  any  one  else,  and  John  pushed  the 


107 

fried  pork  and  boiled  potatoes  along  to  the  host 
to  serve.  It  would  have  been  an  interesting 
study  to  have  watched  little  Binney's  expression 
during  the  progress  of  the  meal,  had  not  a  more 
interesting  study  been  presented  by  "the  gal." 
She  sat  impassive  and  unintelligent,  unless  a 
few  furtive  glances  at  little  Binney's  neatly 
curled  mustache  •  could  be  called  intelligent. 
With  but  one  interruption,  occasioned  by  a  de- 
mand from  the  host  for  more  potatoes,  she  de- 
voted herself  to  a  steady  absorption  of  food, 
eating  everything  with  her  knife,  except  bread, 
which  she  ate  with  her  fork,  doubtless  as  a  con- 
cession to  the  strangers  present.  The  station 
agent  seemed  ill  at  ease,  and.  though  he  made  a 
remark  or  two  during  the  meal,  was  inclined  to 
be  silent.  John  ate  and  said  nothing,  and  fas- 
tidious Binney  was  so  occupied  and  over- 
whelmed with  a  generous  slab  of  salt  pork  that 
he  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  speech.  As 
for  myself,  I  have  knocked  about  enough  to 
take  the  world  as  it  comes,  and  devoted  myself 
to  a  glass  of  milk,  boiled  potatoes  and  bread, 
reflecting  with  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  upon 
the  station  agent's  saddened  life.  The  sorrow 
which  deserves  the  most  sympatay  is  that  un- 
complaining, unconscious  sort  which  solicits  none. 
Into  this  lonely  Kentucky  farmhouse  Death  had 
come  and  taken  the  mother  and  homekeeper 
away,  but  the  son,  unwilling  to  change  from  the 


108 

old  way  of  life,  pushed  doggedly  along,  cher- 
ishing ma's  memory,  and  longing  for  the  touch 
of  ma's  hand,  amid  uncongenial  associates  who 
intensified  her  loss.  Nothing  new  about  the  in- 
cident but  the  sorrow  of  it,  and  sorrow  is  al- 
ways new. 

"Let's  go  back  to  the  station,"  said  Binney 
abruptly,  as  we  ended  the  meal.  A  suggestion 
that  both  the  station  agent  and  I  welcomed. 

"Where'd  you  leave  your  satchel,  Binney,"  I 
inquired,  as  we  started. 

"Station." 

"I  have  two,"  I  said.  "I  left  them  in  the  wait- 
ing-room, and  I  hope  no  bear  or  wildcat  has  run 
off  with  the  little  satchel,  especially." 

"Precious    papers?' 

"Precious  liquid,"   I  answered. 

"Got  a  flask  of  brandy,  old  man?"  asked  little 
Binney  eagerly. 

"Better  than  that." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Van  Dunk?"  In  his 
eagerness  he  crossed  the  road  and  walked  in 
the  dust  so  as  to  be  at  my  side. 

"I  mean  I've  got  a  bottle  of  champagne  in  my 
small  satchel.  Thought  I  might  need  it  to  cheer 
up  on  in  just  such  a  scrape  as  this."  The 
transformation  that  occurred  in  little  Binney 
was  marvellous. 

"Old  man,"  he  said  patting  me  affectionately 
on   the   arm,   as   he   walked   beside   me  in   the 


109 

dark,  rising  or  sinking  as  he  happened  to  strike 
a  rut,  "you're  the  most  thoughtful  man  I  ever 
heard  of  in  my  life.  When  shall  we  tap  it,  my 
boy?" 

"Whenever  you  please,"  I  replied,  "provided 
you  can  procure  ice  and  glasses  of  our  friend, 
the  agent." 

The  station  agent  was  walking  ahead  of  us, 
but  he  did  not  reach  the  station  before  Binney, 
and  when  I  arrived  I  found  the  little  man  hold- 
ing my  small  black  waterproof  satchel  affection- 
ately on  his  lap,  and.  explaining  the  delights  of  a 
cold  bottle  to  Mr.  Todd. 

"Open  your  satchel,  Van  Dunk,"  he  said, 
eagerly.  "Let's  see  the  bottle." 

It  did  not  take  long  to  satisfy  that  require- 
ment, and  little  Binney  fondled  it  as  tenderly 
as  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of  life. 

"You  pull  the  cork  out,  and  come  up  into 
the  ticket  office,  and  I'll  get  some  cups,"  said 
the  agent,  eyeing  the  bottle  with  considerable 
curiosity  and  interest. 

"Where's  the  ice?"  asked  Binney. 

"What  ice?" 

"Why  ice  for  the  champagne,  man." 

"You  don't  need  any." 

Binney  looked  shocked. 

"Champagne,"  he  remarked,  "must  be  cold 
or  it's  no  good.  Did  you  ever  taste  champagne?" 
he  added. 


110 

"You  can't  tell  a  Kentuckian  anything  about 
liquor,  sir,"  said  the  agent  with  dignity. 

"Perhaps  not,  but  champagne  must  be  cold, 
or  it  loses  its  flavor  and  its  life." 

"Life;  does  it  pop?"  asked  Mr.  Todd,  pity- 
ingly. 

"Certainly." 

"Sort  of  birch  beer,  hey?" 

Binney  gave  a  gasp  of  horror. 

"Sir,"  he  said  solemnly,  "this  bottle  contains 
the  most  sparkling,  delicious,  expensive  and  in- 
toxicating beverage  known  in  the  civilized 
world." 

"Is  it  anything  like  whiskey?"  asked  the  agent 
incredulously. 

"Far  better." 

"Does  it  corn  yer?" 

"One  glass  from  that  bottle,  old  man,  and 
you'll  think  you  own  the  whole  State  of  Ken- 
tucky." 

The  agent  looked  relieved.  "I'll  git  the  cups," 
he  said  briskly,  "bring  her  inter  the  office." 

"Where's  the  ice?" 

"We  ain't  got  any." 

Binney's  face  was  a  study.  He  looked  at  the 
bottle,  at  Mr.  Todd  and  then  at  me. 

"What  shall  we  do,  Van  Dunk?"  he  asked  ap- 
pealingly.  "Shall  we  go  without  ice,  old  man, 
or,  or— not  open  it?" 

"I    haven't   carried   that   bottle   down   from 


Ill 

Washington,"  I  said  with  emphasis,  "to  drink 
the  contents  warm.  Better  put  it  up,  Binney, 
and  come  outside  for  a  walk  on  the  platform 
with  me,"  and  to  point  the  suggestion  I  strolled 
out  into  the  cool  October  air,  and  began  a  leis- 
urely promenade. 

Little  Binney  did  not  follow,  but  a  few  min- 
utes later  the  station  agent  came  out. 

"I  reckon  we  can  fix  that,"  he  said. 

"How?" 

"We'll  ride  d  ver  to  the  Casino  at  the  Springs." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  not  especially 
pleased  with  a  night  trip  to  a  rustic  resort. 

"Why,  the  Springs,"  he  repeated,  as  though 
any  one  ignorant  of  that  locality  must  be  an 
idiot 

"The  Casino  over  there  is  the  finest  saloon 
and  eating  house  in  America.  Losin'  a  train  is 
one  thing,  but  great  day'n  morning,  I  ain't 
goin'  to  see  a  man  git  left  on  his  bottle." 

I  didn't  look  enthusiastic. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  added  reassuringly.  "There 
is  five  hours  before  your  train'U  get  here,  ana 
it's  only  eight  miles  over  the  mountain.  John 
can  work  the  wire  and  tend  station  while  I'm 
gone,  so  I'll  saddle  up  the  three  farm  horses 
and  we'll  start  right  away.  You  kin  git  a  ton 
of  ice  over  there,  Mr.  Van  Dunk,"  he  called 
back,  as  he  disappeared  down  the  road  toward 
his  house. 


112 

"Isn't  it  elegant,  old  man?"  said  little  Binney 
delightedly  at  my  elbow. 

"Well,  not  exactly  elegant,  but  I'm  willing.  I'd 
like  to  see  the  Casino  the  agent  talks  about. 
What  Springs  does  he  refer  to,  Binney?" 

"I  don't  know.  Hang  the  Springs!  Shall  I 
carry  that  little  black  satchel  of  yours,  Van 
Dunk?" 

"Can  you  ride  well?" 

"Splendidly,  old  man."  I  avoided  the  decision 
of  the  satchel  question,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  we  heard  the  tramp  of  hoofs,  and  the  agent 
appeared  riding  a  big  white  horse,  leading  two 
other  steeds  of  passable  appearance.  I  distrust- 
ed Binney's  equestrian  ability  in  spite  of  his 
emphatic  statements,  and  so  took  possession 
of  the  precious  satchel  myself.  The  station 
agent  procured  a  conductor's  lantern,  mounted 
his  horse  and  led  the  way.  I  followed  on  one 
of  the  two  other  horses,  and  little  Binney, 
perched  on  the  third,  a  fat  and  broad-backed 
beast,  brought  up  the  rear  of  the  strange  caval- 
cade. 

The  clouds  which  had  obscured  the  sunset 
had  broken  away.  The  night  was  still  and  clear, 
and  through  the  tree  tops  of  the  woods  into 
which  we  had  almost  immediately  plunged, 
the  stars  shone  with  that  exhilarating  and  in- 
spiring clearness  which  follows  a  period  of 
storm.  If  one's  early  years  were  associated 


113 

with  life  in  the  saddle,  no  amount  of  grinding 
and  vexatious  office  cares  in  a  great  city  can 
destroy  the  early  love,  and  though  more  years 
had  passed  than  I  liked  to  reckon  since  I  had 
even  mounted  a  horse,  it  was  a  delightful  ex- 
perience to  find  myself  once  more  in  the  sad- 
dle. The  distant  office,  with  its  perplexing 
cares  of  policy  and  finance,  the  pugnacious  Bibb, 
and  his  bothersome  bill  of  alterations,  were  all 
forgotten,  and  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  full  en- 
joyment of  the  trip.  The  road  which  was 
rough  and  apparently  little  used,  was  level  for 
the  better  part  of  two  miles,  then  turned  abrupt- 
ly across  a  mountain  brook,  and  led  upward  by 
sharp  ascent  through  ever  thickening  woods 
over  the  hills  seen  dimly  from  the  station.  Of 
conversation  there  was  little.  The  agent  rode 
well  ahead,  and  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
have  pressed  him  in  speed  had  it  not  been  evi- 
dent that  little  Binney  was  already  making  his 
topmost  pace.  The  riding  was  not  good,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  groan  from  Binney  indi- 
cated a  tumble  just  escaped.  Otherwise  he  had 
preserved  a  complete  silence  since  the  start,  a 
phenomenon  which  indicated  a  serious  state  of 
affairs. 

"Getting  along  all  right,  Binney?"  I  called 
back  to  him. 

"Finely,  old  man,"  he  answered,  but  the  senti- 
ment did  not  fit  his  feeble  tones. 


114 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  groan  a  few  moments 
ago." 

"You're  mistaken.  Must  have  been  my  saddle. 
It  creaks  like  the  deuce.  Don't  happen  to  have 
any  oil  in  your  satchel,  do  you,  old  man?" 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  ride,  Binney?"  I  asked 
pretty  well  assured  that  this  was  his  first 
lesson. 

"Say,  Van  Dunk,"  he  called  back  as  though 
he  had  not  heard  my  question.  "How  in  the 
world  do  you  happen  to  be  toting  that  sample 
bottle  of  wine  around  down  here?  Are  you 
subsidized  to  exhibit  wine  through  Kentucky 
during  October?" 

"It's  very  simple,"  I  said.  "I  started  South 
via  Washington;  had  a  couple  of  hours  there, 
strolled  around  the  city,  and  happened  to  see  a 
grocery  selling  out  at  auction.  I  always  had 
a  weakness  for  auctions,  so  I  walked  in  and  bid 
on  that  bottle,  which  I  was  paralyzed  to  find 
knocked  down  to  me  for  eighty  cents.  There's 
the  whole  story." 

"I  wish  they  had  auctions  like  that  in  New 
York,"  said  Binney.  "I'd  hang  around  and 
bid" 

Another  groan,  followed  by  a  howl  of  terror 
and  a  thud,  and  Binney 's  horse  seemed  to  be 
running.  Reining  in  my  own  beast,  I  sprang 
to  the  ground  and  caught  the  other  horse,  as  it 
trotted  placidly  toward  me. 


115 

"Are  you  hurt,  Binney?"  I  called. 

No  answer. 

Ahead,  the  station  agent's  lantern  danced  and 
glimmered  among  the  trees.  After  several  in- 
effectual calls  our  guide  heard  me  and  returned. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  inquired,  as  he  saw  me 
holding  the  two  horses. 

"Mr.  Binney  has  had  a  bad  fall.  We  must 
tie  up  the  horses  and  hurry  back  to  him.  I 
hope  he  isn't  badly  hurt,"  I  added,  feeling  rather 
anxious  in  spite  of  myself. 

To  be  burdened  with  a  wounded  companion 
while  travelling  on  horseback  along  a  wild 
mountain  road  at  night  seemed  about  the  last 
straw  to  that  unique  and  troubled  journey. 
Hastily  tying  the  horses  to  trees,  we  hurried 
back,  guided  by  the  groans  which  Binney  was 
now  emitting  with  increasing  frequency  and 
force.  By  the  dull  light  of  the  lantern  we  saw 
that  he  lay  in  a  heap  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Binney?"  I  demanded. 

"I  am  fatally  hurt,  Van  Dunk,"  he  whispered. 

"Don't  say  that,  my  man;  you're  all  right,"  I 
assured  him  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  but  much 
alarmed  at  the  turn  matters  were  taking.  An- 
other groan. 

"Send  word  to  Mrs.  Binney  that  I  was  trying 
to  get  through  by  horseback  and  was  thrown 
in  the  woods  in  the  dark  and  killed.  Don't 
mention  the  wine  part,"  he  added,  with  a  sup- 
plementary groan. 


116 

I  was  about  to  suggest  an  examination  when 
a  sudden  breeze  blew  the  lantern  out. 

Binney's  groans  were  redoubled. 

"Van  Dunk,"  he  gasped,  "it  is  gettting  very 
dark.  I  have  only  a  few  minutes  to  live.  There's 
something  I  must  tell" 

"Here,  here,"  I  said  briskly,  "of  course  it's 
dark,  the  lantern's  out.  As  soon  as  Todd  lights 
up  we  are  going  to  look  you  over." 

A  moment  later,  amid  a  volley  of  groans,  I 
stretched  the  huddled  form  of  my  fellow-towns- 
man and  traveller  at  length  in  the  road,  re- 
gardless of  mud,  and  anxiously  sounded  his 
vital  parts. 

"Is  your  head  hurt,  Binney?"  I  asked  as  I  felt 
around  for  a  gaping  wound. 

"It's  not  the  head." 

"Is  it  the  chest?"  I  asked,  transferring  my 
investigations. 

"I  think  it  is." 

I  loosened  his  clothing  and  felt  him  over  care- 
fully. 

"Did  the  horse  step  on  you?" 

"Lord,  yes;  all  over   me." 

"I  don't  think  your  chest  is  hurt,  Binney," 
I  said  at  length,  failing  to  find  even  a  scratch. 

"Perhaps  not."  His  tones  were  slightly  strong- 
er. "I  think  it  is  the  hips,  Van  Dunk.  I  have 
dislocated  both  legs." 

this  pointer  I  went  to  work  in  that  di- 


117 

rection,  and  heedless  of  protests,  punched, 
kneaded,  slapped  and  worked  every  joint  in  his 
body. 

"Get  up,  Binney,"  I  said  at  length. 

He  sat  up. 

"Is  it  anything  serious,  old  man?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  whatever.  You  slid  off  the  horse, 
and  likely  sat  down  hard  on  a  rock.  That's  all. 
Come,  get  your  beast." 

"Sat  down  hard,"  he  said  groaning  at  the 
recollection.  "I  can  never  sit  down  again.  Oh, 
Van  Dunk,"  he  added  in  genuine  anguish  as  he 
slowly  came  to  his  feet,  "you  don't  know  how  I 
feel.  One  boil  growing  on  top  of  another  boil 
and  hit  with  a  club,  don't  express  it." 

"Shall  I  telegraph  your  wife?"  I  inquired. 

Binney  seemed  to  improve  suddenly. 

"The  trouble  with  that  horse  is  he's  so  wide 
I  can't  get  any  purchase  on  him,"  he  said.  "How 
will  you  swap  horses,  old  man?" 

Anything  for  peace.  The  station  agent  and  I 
helped  Binney  on  my  horse,  and  the  procession 
started  again.  This  time  with  Binney  in  the 
middle.  The  road  from  the  summit  down  the 
other  side  seemed  more  trodden  and  was  much 
smoother.  With  no  mishaps,  therefore,  we 
reached  the  valley,  and,  turning  to  the  left,  a 
glimmering  of  distant  lights  told  of  our  ap- 
proach to  some  settlement.  The  road  was  now 
excellent,  and  quickening  our  pace  we  were  soon 


118 

riding  through  a  small  town,  apparently  lying 
picturesquely  between  hills.  The  village  itself 
seemed  to  consist  largely  of  cottages  and  hotels, 
marking  it  at  once  as  a  fashionable  resort  We 
had  evidently  crossed  the  State  line,  and  this 
was  doubtless  one  of  the  innumerable  mineral 
spring  resorts  in  the  Virginias.  The  main  street, 
which  was  lined  with  villas,  ran  along  a  narrow 
river,  the  same,  so  Todd  informed  me,  as  the 
one  that  I  had  seen  from  the  station.  Across  the 
river,  which  was  spanned  by  a  rustic  bridge, 
and  on  the  high  bank  opposite,  stood  a  large 
and  brilliantly  lighted  building,  with  towers  and 
a  promenade  extending  some  distance  along  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  above  the  river.  This  was  our 
objective  point,  the  long-sought  Casino.  The 
promenade  was  hung  with  Chinese  lanterns  and 
dotted  with  colored  electric  lights,  imparting  an 
exceedingly  festive  air  to  the  scene.  Although 
October,  the  chill  of  the  Northern  fall  was  lacki- 
ing,  and  people  were  to  be  seen  in  every  direc- 
tion with  but  light  wraps,  enjoying  the  festive 
scene  and  the  music  which  came  softened  from 
one  of  the  towers.  Little  Binney  forgot  his 
wounds,  and,  cantering  up  to  me,  exclaimed: 
"Isn't  this  great,  old  man;  biggest  adventure 
of  my  life,  Van  Dunk." 

Before  reaching  the  bridge  the  station  agent 
halted,  and  we  surrendered  our  horses  to  be 
stabled. 


119 

"What  is  your  plan?"  I  asked  a  few  moments 
later,  when  he  rejoined  us. 

"It's  just  this:  Take  that  gripsack  of  yours 
right  up  to  one  of  them  tables  in  the  Casino,  call 
a  nigger,  and  tell  him  to  open  the  bottle  for  three 
gentlemen.  I  ain't  ever  been  in  there  before, 
and  now,  if  we've  got  a  bottle  of  the  best  stuff 
in  the  world,  I'd  like  to  let  'em  know  it." 

I  couldn't  help  feeling  amused  at  the  propo- 
sition, though  not  overanxious  to  appear  in  a 
fashionable  resort,  unkempt  myself  and  with  my 
unique  companions.  No  better  plan,  however, 
suggested  itself  at  the  moment,  and  little  Binney 
settled  the  matter  by  saying:  "It's  a  good 
scheme,  old  man.  I'll  stand  the  corkage  my- 
self. Let's  move  along." 

Accordingly  we  walked  across  the  bridge,  and 
climbed  the  stairway  that  led  to  the  general 
promenade.  I  walked  ahead  and  carried  the 
satchel,  and  in  consequence  did  not  notice  the 
attention  we  were  attracting;  but  when  we 
reached  the  main  building  and  entered  the 
restaurant  the  full  glare  of  the  brilliantly  lighted 
room  fell  on  my  two  companions  with  paralyzing 
effect.  For  a  moment  I  wondered  whether  we 
would  be  admitted.  The  station  master,  with 
his  stalwart  frame  incased  in  a  flannel  shirt  of 
unknown  antiquity,  bearing  the  grime  of  the 
day's  toil  upon  him  and  the  newly  acquired 
fumes  of  the  stable  about  him,  was  embarrass- 


120 

ing  enough!  in  a  fashionable  meeting-place,  where 
evening  dress  was  seen  on  all  sides.  But  he 
was  as  nothing  to  little  Binney. 

There  is  a  tradition  in  my  family  that  in  child- 
hood I  found  a  pot  of  yellow  paint  in  the  stable, 
and  industriously  daubed  my  little  sister  from 
head  to  foot,  and  then  proudly  presented  her  to 
my  mother's  horrified  gaze  with  the  triumphant 
announcement  that  I  had  brought  her  a  little 
canary.  This  tale  I  have  always  denied,  but  if 
true,  that  mite  of  a  girl  in  yellow  could  not  have 
looked  more  demoralized  than  little  Binney  as 
the  glare  of  the  lights  fell  full  upon  him.  There 
was  mud  everywhere  except  on  his  collar,  whictt 
had  completely  disappeared  beneath  the  horizon. 
The  back  of  his  mud-besprinkled  coat  was  torn 
from  the  collar  to  the  pocket;  his  face  was 
streaked,  his  hair  on  end,  and  the  luxuriant 
mustache  so  carefully  watched  and  tended  had 
yielded  to  the  killing  dampness  of  the  woods 
and  drooped  mournfully  over  his  mouth.  All 
unconscious  of  his  appearance,  little  Binney  was 
enjoying  every  moment.  He  evidently  believed 
that  the  attention  he  attracted  was  a  tribute  to 
his  metropolitan  air  and  manners.  My  own  ap- 
pearance I  well  knew  could  not  be  reassuring, 
and  I  hastily  led  my  motley  companions  to  a 
table  in  an  alcove  adjoining  the  large  dining- 
room,  from  which  we  could  look  out  on  the  ani- 
mated scene.  The  myriad  lights,  the  waltz 


121 

music  from  the  band  in  the  tower  just  beyond, 
the  buzz  of  laughter  and  conversation,  and  the 
hurrying  waiters  flitting  from  table  to  table 
made  a  vivid  picture  long  to  be  remembered. 
The  station  agent  gazed  upon  the  gay  scene  with 
open-mouthed  admiration.  Suddenly  he  leaned 
over  to  me  and  whispered: 

"I  want  to  see  the  boss." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Them  niggers  is  hurryin'  too  much.  They'll 
drop  the  dishes  sure  as  you  live.  I  never  seen 
a  nigger  hurry  yet  that  he  didn't  spile  what  he 
was  doin'.  It's  unnatural  for  a  nigger  to  hurry." 

Little  Binney  had  been  slowly  recovering  from 
the  shock  of  sitting  down,  and  the  reference  to 
waiters  brought  him  to  himself. 

"Don't  mind  the  dishes,"  he  said,  irritably. 
"We  didn't  come  across  the  mountains  to  save 
dishes.  Where's  the  satchel,  Van  Dunk?" 

I  called  the  head-waiter,  who  was  passing,  and 
said: 

"There's  a  quart  bottle  of  champagne  in  this 
little  satchel.  I  wish  you  would  take  it  and  have 
it  served  properly.  My  friends  and  I  have  come 
across  the  mountain  on  purpose  to  drink  this 
particular  bottle  together,  well  served." 

The  head-waiter  looked  at  the  unkempt  sta- 
tion agent  and  little  Binney's  streaked  but 
eager  countenance  in  dignified  surprise,  but  he 
took  the  satchel,  and  the  auction  bottle  seemed 
at  last  about  to  be  uncorked. 


122 

"How  does  it  happen  to  be  so  gay  over  here 
and  so  deserted  on  your  side  of  the  mountain?" 
I  asked  the  station  agent,  to  distract  his  thoughts 
from  the  waiters,  whom  he  was  still  watching 
with  alarm. 

"'Taint  a  pleasant  story,"  he  answered  short- 
ly. "My  station  was  put  in  to  reach  the  springs, 
and  the  wagon-road  cut  through  across  the  moun- 
tain, and  when  we  got  it  started  and  it  looked 
like  there'd  be  a  town  around  the  station  in  six 
months,  blamed  if  some  fellers  didn't  build  a 
branch  railroad  from  South  Forks  right  inter  the 
town  and  it  left  my  station  clean  out.  That's 
how." 

I  did  not  answer,  for  I  saw  my  little  black 
satchel  approaching,  borne  in  a  gingerly  manner 
by  a  small  colored  man. 

"Is  this  yours,  sah?'  he  asked. 

"It  is." 

"De  wine  am  clean  gone,  sah." 

"What  do  you  mean,  man?" 

"De  cork  had  popped  and  de  wine  was  all 
out  in  de  gripsack,  sah." 

The  brand  was  the  best.  'For  a  moment  I  felt 
utterly  bewildered.  As  nearly  as  I  could  recol- 
lect it  was  perfectly  corked  and  wired. 

"The  wire  seemed  cut,  sah,"  suggested  the 
waiter. 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  through  my  mind. 
I  looked  across  the  table  at  little  Binney,  blink- 


133 

ing  and  dilapidated.  His  sheepish  look  and  tell- 
tale silence  were  enough. 

"Binney,"  I  said,  sharply,  "did  you  cut  that 
wire?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  humbly. 

"When?" 

"After  you  left  the  station." 

"What  did  you  do  It  for?" 

"I  wanted  to  drink  it,  anyway,  Van  Dunk,  ice 
or  no  ice,  and  I  just  cut  one  wire;  the  other  was 
there.  I  don't  see  how  it  popped.  I'm  dread- 
fully sorry,  old  man,  indeed,  I  am."  His  voice 
quavered  mournfully  out  and  left  him  on  the 
verge  of  collapse. 

The  station  agent  glared  at  Binney  in  silence. 
His  looks  expressed  it  all.  It  was  fortunate  his 
anger  took  that  form,  for  had  he  whistled  out 
a  few  picturesque  Kentucky  phrases  they  would 
have  insured  our  immediate  ejection. 

I  was  conscious  of  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
irritation  at  my  meddlesome  fellow-passenger. 
He  had  no  right  to  touch  the  bottle  I  had  carried 
down  from  Washington  with  so  much  care,  and 
now,  through  his  offlciousness,  I  had  lugged  an 
empty  flask  at  infinite  inconvenience  in  the 
dark. 

"It's  a  fine  satchel,"  said  the  station  agent  at 
length,  his  professional  instinct  aroused.  Not  a 
drop  was  spilled.  I  never  see  the  like.  Last 
spring  a  can  of  preserves  was  busted  in  the  bot- 


134 

torn  of  a  trunk  I  was  puttin'  on  the  baggage-car 
of  Number  2,  and  the  juice  come  out  on  my  shirt 
so  I  reckon  I  smelt  like  I  was  a  quince  for  a 
week." 

The  story  was  doubtless  true.  The  stains  were 
still  in  evidence. 

Little  Binney  paid  the  corkage,  and  had  I  not 
been  well  convinced  earlier  in  the  trip 
that  he  was  much  cramped  financially  I 
should  have  insisted  on  generous  repara- 
tion. As  it  was,  the  situation  was  embar- 
rassing; for  while  I  would  gladly  order  a  new 
supply  of  champagne  for  the  station  master,  I 
was  determined  that  Binney  should  not  receive 
any  such  attention  at  my  hands.  I  was  disgust- 
ed with  the  whole  trip;  regretted  that  I  had  con- 
sented to  make  it,  and  felt  anxious  to  return 
immediately. 

"Waiter,"  said  I,  decisively,  "bring  a  bottle  of 
beer  and  a  plate  of  cheese  sandwiches,  and  bring 
them  quick." 

The  station  agent  looked  horrified.  A  bottle 
of  whiskey  and  three  glasses  he  could  have  un- 
derstood and  approved,  but  beer  was  a  strange 
and  watery  drink.  This  sentiment,  however,  he 
modified  on  its  arrival,  and  when,  an  hour  later, 
I  insisted  on  our  departure,  both  the  station 
agent  and  little  Binney  were  feeling  like  prop- 
erty-owners. It  was  9:30  when,  with  many 
groans,  little  Binney  was  again  in  his  saddle,  and 


125 

we  turned  toward  the  hills.  The  little  binder 
was  especially  voluble,  and,  after  we  had  pro- 
gressed a  mile  or  two,  he  developed  an  unpleas- 
ant habit  of  stopping  his  horse,  twisting  around 
in  his  saddle  and  apologizing  profusely  for  the 
wire  episode.  We  lost  so  much  time  by  this  di- 
version that  the  station  master  was  far  ahead 
and  the  glimmer  of  the  lantern  died  suddenly 
away. 

"Shut  up,  Binney!"  I  called,  angrily,  as  he  be- 
gan the  sixth  apology.  "You're  completely  in 
the  dark.  Your  horse  may  stumble,  and  if  he 
does,  it  will  be  serious  for  you." 

In  fact  I  felt  considerably  alarmed.  We  were 
now  in  the  thickest  part  of  the  forest.  Occasion- 
ally a  star  glimmered  for  a  moment  overhead, 
but  it  was  blackest  night  below.  Although  the 
horses  moved  cautiously  along,  we  were  absolute- 
ly at  their  mercy,  and  my  companion,  who  on 
such  a  journey  needed  more  than  his  faculties 
when  at  their  best,  was  semi-intoxicated.  Sharp 
words  and  his  own  fears,  however,  did  much  to 
sober  him,  but  our  progress  at  best  was  exceed- 
ingly slow.  It  seemed  to  my  excited  senses  that 
we  had  travelled  hours,  and  I  was  beginning  to 
fear  we  had  strayed  from  the  road,  when  I  caught 
the  distant  glow  of  a  light  apparently  stationary. 
The  horses  quickened  their  pace,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  we  had  reached  the  station  master's 
lantern,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  His 
horse  was  tied  to  a  neighboring  tree,  and  he 


126 

himself  sat  on  a  fallen  stump,  apparently  in 
great  pain. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  asked,  in  alarm. 

"It's  the  first  time,  and,  by  gum,  it's  the  last!" 
he  ejaculated. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"That  beer.  Idea  of  asking  a  Kentuckian  to 
take  a  sickly,  watery  drink  with  suds  on  top,  and* 
I'm  just  where  I  orter  be.  Sick.  Sick,  I  tell 
you.  Sick  as  an  old  cow,"  he  moaned. 

"Can't  you  ride?"  I  asked,  sympathetically. 

"Ride?"  he  paused  to  double  up  with  another 
paroxysm,  "ride?  "I'd  rather  die!" 

"But  man,  we  must  catch  that  train." 

"Ketch  it." 

"And  leave  you  here?" 

"Certainly.  Take  the  lantern  and  get  out.  I'll 
wrastle  it  out  with  the  beer  and  come  home  in 
the  morning.  John'll  take  the  horses,  or  you 

kin Great  day  'n  mornin',  there  it  comes 

again!" 

I  disliked  to  leave  Mr.  Todd  in  such  a  plight, 
but  compromised  by  giving  him  a  small  bottle  of 
brandy  carried  for  just  such  emergencies,  and 
when  Binney  and  I  resumed  our  journey  with 
the  lantern  it  was  already  after  11.  We  there- 
fore pushed  forward  with  increased  speed,  in 
spite  of  the  roughness  which  characterized  that 
end  of  the  road,  and  at  twenty  minutes  before 
12  we  drew  up  at  the  station  platform. 

I  must  confess  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  pro- 


127 

found  relief  that  I  sprang  from  my  horse.  I  pre- 
sume Binney  was  equally  relieved.  He  had  said 
nothing  for  at  least  three  miles.  One  dim  light 
glimmered  from  the  station,  which  seemed  ut- 
terly deserted,  in  the  midst  of  a  wilderness.  I 
hastened  around  to  the  waiting-room  entrance. 
The  room  was  dark  and  empty.  The  single  light 
I  have  mentioned  came  from  the  ticket  office. 
I  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in.  John  was 
asleep  on  two  chairs. 

"Wake  up!"  I  exclaimed.  "When  will  the 
train  be  here?" 

"Where's  Todd?"  he  asked,  vacantly. 

"He's  sick  in  the  woods,"  I  answered.  "When 
will  the  train  be  here?" 

"What  train?' 

"Number  three,  I  think  you  call  it,  when  Is  It 
due,  man?" 

"Number  three  went  through  at  half-past  ten." 

"What?"  I  gasped. 

The  intellectual  John  bunched  up  his  coat  for 
a  pillow,  and  laid  down  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said  drowsily.  "Wildcatted  through." 

I  didn't  wait  to  hear  his  snores  resumed. 

"Binney,"  I  called  in  despair,  hastening  out 
on  the  platform.  "What  do  you  think  has  hap- 
pened? While  we  fooled  our  time  away  over 
there  at  the  Springs,  that  train  has  come  and 
gone.  It  passed  here  at  half-past  ten.  What 

on  earth" But  Binney  didn't  answer.  He  was 

curled  up  on  the  baggage  truck  asleep. 


Che  Unambcmicmed  Serpent 

"You're  about  the  only  man,"  he  said  slowly, 
"that  ever  asked  what  his  first  name  was." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  never  knew  why.  He  was  just 
'Walker'  to  everybody.  Always  was,  from  a 
boy.  I  knowed  him  from  a  little  chap  at  school, 
and  he  was  just  Walker,  then.  His  name  was 
Edward,  but  bless  your  soul,  there  wa'n't  a  dozen 
folks  in  Wyoming  County  knew  it,  and  after 
awhile  it  did  seem  like  the  Edward  sort  of  mil- 
dewed off,  from  lack  of  use,  and  left  him  plain 
'Walker.'  " 

I  was  a  stranger  on  the  lake,  and  I  had  idly 
asked  the  weather-beaten  old  fellow  fishing  from 
a  flat-bottomed  scow  near  me  who  kept  the  time- 
worn  hotel  which  stood  on  the  further  shore. 
My  neighbor's  luck  had  been  no  better  than 
mine,  and  he  was  quite  willing  to  talk. 

"Yes,"   he  said    reflectively,    "it's    Walker's, 


129 

Walker  is  dead,  but  it's  Walker's  Hotel.  It 
always  has  been  and  it  always  will  be,  I  sup- 
pose, till  it  burns  down  or  dries  up.  I  reckon," 
he  added,  after  a  pause,  "that  no  other  house 
in  America  was  ever  built  in  the  way  that  was." 

"How  was  that?" 

"Perhaps  you  never  heard  of  the  Great  Sea 
Serpent  of  Silver  Lake?" 

"I  never  did." 

"Well,  the  sea  serpent  built  that  house,  and 
he  built  it  well.  It's  stood  forty  years  just  as 
you  see  it  now." 

"What  was  the  sea  serpent?" 

"Well,  it  all  happened  before  the  war.  They 
talk  about  jokes  and  schemes  and  fakes,  as  they 
call  'em,  nowadays,  but  that  snake  was  the  all- 
firedest  biggest  hoax  ever  heard  on  in  these 
parts." 

"Do  you  know  the  story?" 

"Know  the  story?"  echoed  the  occupant  of 
the  scow,  looking  compassionately  at  me  across 
the  water. "Man  and  boy  I've  lived  here  sixty 
years,  and  I  was  in  that  job  from  beginning  to 
end.  Mebbe  you'd  like  to  hear  about  it?"  he 
added  inquiringly. 

"I  certainly  should,"  I  replied,  with  a  sense  of 
satisfaction  that  the  lake  might  be  made  to  pro- 
duce some  compensation  for  poor  fishing.  The 
old  fellow  let  out  his  anchor  a  turn  or  two, 
swung  around  my  way,  and  after  putting  on  a 
fresh  bait  he  began: 


180 

"In  1855  my  father  owned  a  farm  along  the 
western  shore  of  the  lake.  If  we  was  a  bit  fur- 
ther out  you  could  see  some  of  the  medder  land, 
just  round  the  point  over  there.  I  was  a  likely 
young  feller  in  those  days,  and  there  wasn't 
much  about  this  lake  I  didn't  know.  It  wasn't 
like  it  is  now  around  here.  To  be  sure  there 
were  picnics  and  all  that  in  the  summer  sea- 
son, but  there  wasn't  a  house  on  the  lake  shore 
from  end  to  end,  except  the  old  hotel  of  Walk- 
er's, and  the  water  was  alive  with  fish.  In  the 
spring  of  '55  I  was  twenty -one;  I  reckon  Walker 
was  about  twenty-eight.  Walker  was  a  curious 
feller,  one  of  them  quiet,  deep  sort  of  men.  The 
Perry  village  people  hadn't  thought  he  was  very 
heavy-headed,  but  since  1855  I  hain't  seen  a 
man  in  the  whole  town  of  Perry  that  could  have 
kep'  up  with  Walker  in  solid  brains. 

"His  father  had  died  the  year  before,  and  left 
him  a  farm  just  back  from  the  lake  and  a  good 
piece  of  land  along  the  shore  with  an  old  hotel 
and  picnic  grounds.  The  Walker  family  was 
supposed  to  run  the  hotel  in  the  summer  and 
sort  of  farm  it  the  rest  of  the  time.  But  Walker 
wasn't  satisfied  with  that.  Si  Blodgett  and  I 
was  his  best  friends,  and  he  used  to  talk  to  us 
of  how  things  was  goin'  and  wish  he  could  stir 
'em  up.  Si  lived  next  to  me  up  on  the  West 
Road.  One  night  early  in  June  Si  and  me 
rowed  over  to  Walker's.  I  could  row  across 


131 

the  lake  in  those  days  quicker  than  I  can  now. 
Well,  Walker  had  been  doin'  chores  around  that 
old  hotel,  getting  ready  to  open  it  up  for  the 
season,  and  I  tell  you  it  looked  dismal  enough 
in  the  dusk.  He  seemed  to  have  something  on 
his  mind. 

"  'Boys,'  sez  he,  'I'll  lock  up  here  and  then 
yon  can  come  down  to  the  boathouse  with  me 
awhile;  I've  got  something  to  talk  to  you  about.' 
He  locked  up  the  hotel  and  we  three  went  down 
to  the  lake  shore.  I  never  see'd  a  prettier  night 
than  that  was;  there  wasn't  a  cloud  in  the  sky 
nor  a  ripple  on  the  whole  blessed  lake,  and 
every  star  shone  up  from  the  water  as  though 
it  was  sky  above  and  sky  below.  We  sat  down 
on  a  bench  by  the  boathouse. 

"  Tve  got  a  plan  in  my  head,  boys,'  said 
Walker,  'that's  a  pretty  serious  one.  I  want  to 
know  whether  you  two  will  stand  by  me  to  the 
end? 

"  'Walker,'  says  SI  Blodgett,  'we  three  was 
brought  up  together;  if  you  want  any  help 
from  us,  we're  with  you  till  you  say  no.'  Then 
I  told  him  about  the  same  thing. 

"  'Well,'  he  said,  'I  knew  we  three  hadn't  been 
friends  for  nothing,  but  I've  reached  a  plnce 
where  I've  got  to  make  a  big  move  of  some  kind 
or  go  under.  What  with  a  poor  season  last  year 
and  father's  death,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  it's 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  hold  on  to  the  farm  and 


182 

hotel.  I  thought  of  working  the  farm  and  try- 
ing to  rent  the  hotel,  but  I  could  not  see  enough 
in  that  to  pull  me  through.  Fact  is,  boys,  there's 
only  one  chance;  I  need  ready  money  for  the 
mortgages,  and  if  the  hotel  has  a  good  season 
I'm  all  right.  I've  been  thinking  and  thinking 
how  to  make  sure  of  that  sort  of  season,  and 
I've  got  an  idea  about  it.  You  see  this  is  a 
little  lake;  it's  out  of  the  way  and  not  much 
known,  and  people  come  to  fish  and  picnic,  but 
the  hotel  don't  draw  much  business.  Boys,  an 
ordinary  season  won't  pull  me  through;  I  want 
a  sensation,  and  I've  got  to  get  one  or  smash. 
Last  winter  I  read  an  article  In  a  newspaper 
about  the  sea  serpent  being  seen  in  Long  Island 
Sound,  and  how  city  people  just  poured  into  the 
towns  around  there  and  kept  up  a  big  excite- 
ment. Now,  Si  Blodgett,  why  can't  we  have  a 
sea  serpent  right  here  in  Silver  Lake?' 

"Walker  was  excited.  He  talked  low  and 
quiet,  but  I  tell  you  he  was  worked  up.  Well, 
sir,  it  fairly  took  the  breath  out  of  Si  Blodgett 
and  me.  I  think  Si  nearly  fell  off  the  bench. 
'Wouldn't  it  be  found  out?'  he  asked,  sort  of 
shaky. 

"  'Not  if  it's  worked  right.' 

"  'How's  that?' 

"  'My  Idea  is  to  have  the  serpent  appear  pretty 
often  at  first,  and  get  people  excited  and  com- 
ing to  the  lake,  and  then  we  can  stop  when 
they  get  too  thick/ 


188 

"Si  Blodgett  didn't  seem  to  think  much  of  the 
plan. 

"  'I'll  tell  you  what,  Walker,'  said  he,  sooth- 
ingly, 'I'll  do  anything  to  help  you,  but  this 
is  dangerous  for  us  all.  You  want  to  rig  up  a 
log  or  something,  and  get  people  all  by  the  ears, 
and  then  when  they're  worked  up  they'll  find  us 
three  down  in  the  marsh  pulling  a  big  wooden 
snake  around  with  a  string.  I  tell  you,  Walker, 
they'll  tar  and  feather  us.' 

"  'You're  right,  Si,'  said  Walker,  just  as  quiet 
as  you  please.  'If  we  had  a  lame  plan  like  that, 
we  might  as  well  go  to  jail  beforehand.  I've 
got  a  safe  plan  all  laid  out;  listen  to  it,  boys, 
and  then  I'll  leave  it  to  you  whether  we  try  it  or 
not.' 

"Well,  sir,  Si  Blodgett  and  I  had  always  been 
fond  of  Walker,  but  till  he  began  to  talk  that 
night  we  never  knew  what  a  head  there  was  on, 
him.  He  had  the  whole  thing  planned  out.  His 
serpent  was  to  be  a  big  hosepipe,  painted  dark 
green,  with  white  spots.  There  was  to  be  a  keg 
at  one  end,  made  over  to  resemble  a  big  ser- 
pent's head,  and  painted  a  bright  color.  The 
critter  was  to  be  raised  by  air  and  sunk  by 
water,  and  operated  from  the  shore  by  a  small 
pipe  which  should  be  connected  with  the  tail 
of  the  snake.  Walker's  idea  was  that  as  the 
hotel  was  but  a  few  rods  from  the  lake,  the  pip- 
ing should  be  run  underground  to  the  house, 


184 

and  then  up  to  a  room  which  commanded  a  good 
outlook  and  from  which  the  whole  thing  could 
be  operated. 

"The  trouble  seemed  to  be  to  move  the  thing 
around,  but  Walker  said  that  when  it  was  on 
the  surface  and  full  of  air  it  would  be  easy  to 
work  about,  and  a  coil  of  light  rope  connecting 
from  the  snake  to  the  other  shore  and  then 
back  over  a  pulley,  and  another  line  from  the 
other  side,  would  do.  Well,  he  drew  such  a 
vivid  picture  of  the  whole  thing,  the  snake's 
appearance,  the  fright  of  the  people  on  the  lake, 
the  newspaper  accounts  and  the  crowds  that 
would  come,  that  when  he  ended  by  saying: 
'Now,  boys,  there's  the  plan.  I  said  I  would 
leave  it  to  you,  and  I  will.  What  do  you  say  to 
it?'  neither  Si  Blodgett  nor  I  hesitated  a  sec- 
ond. We  were  really  only  boys.  We  jumped  off 
that  bench  by  the  boathouse  and  told  him  we 
would  go  in  heart  and  soul,  and  swore  by  all 
our  old  friendship  to  stand  by  him  to  the  end. 

"Well,  sir,  at  that  Walker  almost  broke  down, 
and  I  began  to  see  how  much  depended  on  it 
for  him.  We  settled  that  evening  what  each 
of  us  was  to  do.  Walker  had  about  $100  in 
money,  which  he  thought  would  get  the  hose 
and  fittings,  and  he  was  to  go  to  Buffalo  for 
them  by  the  end  of  that  week.  We  arranged 
while  he  was  gone  that  Si  and  I  should  make 
the  head  and  a  strong  bellows  in  a  vacant  loft 


185 

over  my  father's  toolhouse.  The  fitting  to- 
gether could  only  be  done  in  Walker's  barn  at 
night.  We  concluded  ten  days  would  be  enough 
for  that  part  of  the  work  and  that  we  could  be 
ready  for  business  about  July  6.  It  was  so  late  by 
this  time  that  Si  and  I  said  a  hurried  good-night, 
and  started  across  the  lake.  I  shall  never  for- 
get that  trip.  In  our  excited  state  every  shad- 
ow was  the  dim  outline  of  a  sea  serpent,  every 
ripple  the  beginning  of  a  head.  Well,  sir,  for  a 
week  off  and  on  as  we  got  the  chance,  with- 
out exciting  any  attention,  Si  and  I  worked 
away  on  that  head,  and  I  tell  you  we  fixed  up 
the  reddest  and  awfullest-looking  critter  you 
ever  see.  We  wrapped  it  up  in  sacking  and 
rowed  it  over  the  lalte  one  quiet  night  about 
the  end  of  June.  We  took  it  right  up  to  the 
loft  in  Walker's  barn,  where  he  was  collecting 
all  his  material.  He  cut  off  the  sackin'  and 
took  a  look  at  the  head.  You  should  have  seen 
how  pleased  he  was. 

"  'Boys,'  says  he  after  a  minute,  'it  almost 
makes  me  shiver.  That  head  will  pull  Wyom- 
ing County  clean  out  of  its  boots.' 

"  'Well,'  says  I,  'if  that  head  hadn't  been 
wrapped  up  coming  over  in  the  boat,  and  them 
eyes  had  been  out  a-lookin'  at  us,  I  reckon  Si 
Blodgett  and  I  would  have  fell  overboard.' 

"Si  and  I  spent  that  night  with  Walker,  and 
we  put  in  some  work  on  the  critter,  I  can  tell 


188 

you.  Walker  had  bought  a  lot  of  things  in 
Buffalo  piecemeal,  and  so  no  one  up  there  was 
suspicious.  As  he  was  getting  the  hotel  ready 
for  summer,  Perry  people  didn't  think  anything 
about  the  bundles  that  kep'  a-comin'.  I  reckoned 
he'd  have  some  trouble  gettin'  the  hose,  but 
somehow  Walker's  luck  was  always  stiddy.  He 
found  just  the  thing.  It  had  been  made  for  a 
hose  company  up  in  the  city  and  rejected  be- 
cause it  was  too  large  for  them.  It  was  about 
a  foot  thick,  made  of  leather,  closely  riveted. 
Most  hose  like  that  is  stiff  and  heavy,  but  this 
was  limber  and  just  about  the  right  weight. 
There  was  twenty-four  feet  of  that  hose,  and 
Walker  had  painted  it  green,  and  mottled  it  up 
some  with  white  paint.  Well,  sir,  we  fitted 
the  head  on  and  got  the  critter  pretty  well  into 
shape  that  night.  The  connecting  air  pipe  was 
left  until  the  last  thing.  The  critter  was  the 
first  step.  The  next  thing  was  laying  the  pipe. 
Walker  said  he  would  attend  to  that,  to  prevent 
suspicion,  and  Si  and  I  set  the  pulleys  on  the 
east  shore.  That  was  no  easy  job.  Walker 
was  always  sayin',  'Boys,  do  everything  so  well 
that  you  won't  be  afraid  of  gettin'  found  out 
if  the  whole  of  Wyoming  County  camp  out 
along  the  lake';  and  Si  and  I  set  those  pulleys 
into  rock  under  water  and  then  arranged  brush 
and  stone  over  the  place  along  shore.  We  did 
it  all  at  night,  and  if  we  hadn't  set  marks  we 


137 

never  in  the  world  could  have  found  those 
pulleys  again. 

"Walker  himself  pegged  away  at  them  pipes, 
and  I  tell  you  it  was  a  job.  He  laid  two  pipes 
side  by  side  underground  from  a  swampy  place 
down  on  the  lake  shore,  a  little  way  below  the 
hotel,  right  up  to  the  cellar  and  then  up  the 
east  chimney,  that  being  boarded  up,  to  the 
southeast  room  on  the  second  floor.  The  air 
pipe  was  small,  but  the  other  pipe,  which  was 
intended  to  carry  the  cords  to  operate  the  critter, 
was  a  two-inch  tubing,  and  strong. 

"Walker  was  anxious  to  have  things  all  ready 
by  the  Fourth  of  July,  because  that  always 
brought  a  crowd  to  the  lake,  but  it  was  no  use 
tryin'  for  that.  I  never  see'd  a  scheme  with  so 
much  solid  work  in  it.  Si  and  I  was  busy  round 
the  farms  all  day,  and  I  tell  you  when  we  got 
through  with  our  night  work  besides  we  was 
petered  out.  By  the  10th  of  July  we  was  about 
ready.  Si  and  I  was  pretty  excited  when  we 
rowed  over  that  night  We  each  had  a  bundle 
of  clothes  with  us,  as  Walker  had  hired  us  to 
help  at  the  hotel  for  a  couple  of  weeks— at  least 
that  was  the  story  we  told.  It  was  a  hard 
time  for  both  of  us  to  get  away,  bein'  right  in 
the  busy  season,  and  my  father  kicked  like  a 
mule  about  it,  but  I  went  just  the  same. 

"That  night  we  sort  of  put  things  together. 
We  connected  the  bellows  and  air  pump  with 


138 

the  air  pipe,  after  blowing  a  small  plug  through 
the  other  tubing.  To  the  plug  was  fastened  a 
string,  and  with  that  we  pulled  through  all 
the  cords,  carefully  soaped  to  make  them  move 
freely.  It  may  seem  sort  of  unlikely  to  you 
that  there  was  any  chance  of  moving  this  big 
critter  around  as  we  expected  to  do,  and  con- 
trolling it  from  such  a  distance,  but  it  really 
was  not.  Walker  had  such  a  head  on  him  that 
he  had  all  the  details  figured  out.  His  plan 
was  just  this:  A  small  leaded  rubber  pipe,  and 
plenty  of  it,  connecting  the  air  pipe  on  the  shore 
with  the  middle  of  the  serpent.  This  made  it 
easy  to  raise  or  lower  the  serpent  at  will,  water 
being  admitted  when  the  air  pressure  was  re- 
moved by  a  suction  valve  in  the  side  of  the  hose. 
In  the  other  tubing  were  five  cords,  one  at  each 
side  of  the  head,  leading  forward,  but  to  oppo- 
site shores,  and  one  at  each  side  of  the  tail, 
leading  the  other  way.  Another  cord  connected 
with  the  head  so  as  to  give  that  an  independent 
motion.  Then  the  work  was  finished,  but  night 
after  night  we  watched  and  waited  for  one  that 
was  dark  enough  to  be  safe.  At  last  on  the  16th 
there  came  up  a  hard  northeast  storm. 

"That  night  was  as  dark  as  a  pocket,  and  I 
tell  you,  sir,  there  were  three  excited  men 
around  Walker's  Hotel.  About  11  o'clock  we 
crept  out  to  the  barn  and  took  the  serpent  down 
to  the  shore,  connected  the  pipes  with  great 


139 

care,  and  Si  Blodgett  and  I  towed  the  snake  out 
to  the  spot  agreed  upon.  Walker  hurried  back 
to  the  hotel;  he  was  to  signal  with  a  light  from 
the  southeast  room  when  we  were  to  cast  the 
critter  off.  We  had  hardly  reached  the  spot 
when  he  gave  the  signal  and  we  cut  loose. 
Although  the  night  was  so  dark,  we  were  close 
enough  to  the  serpent  to  see  it  lying  on  the 
surface  of  the  lake  beside  us.  The  head  rode 
high  in  the  water,  being  of  wood,  and  those 
horrible  eyes  glared  straight  ahead. 

"Minute  after  minute  passed.  Each  one 
seemed  an  hour.  The  snake's  position  showed 
not  the  slightest  change.  Was  it  a  failure  after1 
all?  Si  Blodgett  and  I  were  so  excited  that  we 
breathed  with  difficulty.  Suddenly  I  heard  Si's 
hoarse  whisper:  'Hen,  the  head  is  sinking.' 

"It  surely  was.  Little  by  little  it  lowered  into 
the  lake  until  the  water  rippled  over  the  eyes. 
Then  down  the  whole  dark  and  mottled  length 
there  was  a  convulsive  tremor,  so  lifelike  that 
it  was  hideous,  and  the  snake  appeared  to  be 
moving  toward  us.  The  head  arose  out  of 
the  water  and  swayed  slightly  from  side  to 
side.  I  never  expect  to  see  a  more  horrible 
sight  than  that  critter  presented.  I  knowed 
all  about  it;  I  had  made  that  head  myself;  but 
I  jumped  back  to  my  seat,  and  rowed  for  the 
shore  till  both  oars  bent.  The  Great  Sea  Serpent 
was  in  the  lake,  a  reality  at  last. 


140 

"That  night  Walker,  Si  Blodgett  and  I  had 
a  long  discussion  about  the  serpent's  public 
appearance,  and  we  agreed  to  let  it  be  seen  only 
at  night  until  we  were  accustomed  to  working 
it.  Walker  was  the  proper  man  to  operate  the 
critter,  but,  of  course,  he  had  to  be  about  the 
hotel  and  be  very  careful  not  to  excite  suspicion, 
so  he  gave  Si  Blodgett  the  key  of  that  southeast 
room  and  put  him  in  charge.  I  was  to  be  the 
outside  man,  loafing  around  on  the  lake,  fishing1 
or  rowing,  near  where  the  serpent  was,  and 
ready  with  a  set  of  signals  in  case  of  any 
trouble.  The  next  day  was  bright  and  sunny 
and  we  all  worked  quietly  around  the  house. 
About  suppertime  five  or  six  young  fellows  from 
Perry  drove  up  to  the  hotel.  One  of  'em  was 
Lon  Scribner,  who  worked  for  the  newspaper 
that  came  out  every  week  at  Perry.  Walker 
gave  me  a  look,  and  then  he  went  to  meet  'em. 

"  'How's  the  fishin',  Walker?'  says  Lon. 

"  'First  rate.' 

"  'Let  us  have  a  boat  for  a  couple  of  hours?' 

"  'Glad  to,'  says  Walker. 

"They  got  out  and  hitched,  and  Lon,  says  he: 
'Where  are  the  bass  bitin'  this  year,  Walker?' 

"Walker  sat  down  on  the  horse-block  and 
thought  about  it.  'Well,'  says  he,  'I  haven't 
been  out  much  myself,  but  I  hear  the  best  place 
is  over  east  of  the  inlet.  You  might  try  it 
there.' 


141 

"I  knew  what  was  coming.  The  serpent  lay 
just  east  of  the  inlet. 

"They  started  out,  and  I  told  Walker  I  thought 
I  would  go  fishing  myself.  So  I  rowed  slowly 
over  a  ways,  and  kept  watch  on  the  party.  It 
was  about  9  o'clock  when  they  came  over  by  the 
inlet.  It  was  time  for  the  serpent.  I  lit  my  pipe 
and  rowed  slowly  along.  The  light  was  the  sig- 
nal to  begin.  The  fishing  party  had  been  having 
good  luck  before,  but  they  were  perfectly  quiet 
for  about  five  minutes,  then  Joe  McKnight  said: 
'Guess  we're  driftin',  ain't  we,  Lon?' 

"  'No,   we  ain't.' 

"  'Well,  there's  a  big  log  over  there.' 

"  *Can't  be,'  says  Lon. 

"There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Joe  McKnight 
said  in  the  scaredest  voice  I  ever  heard,  'Boys, 
that  thing  is  moving!' 

"'It's  bendin'  round!'  says  one  of  the  others. 
'There's  a  head  on  it!  Great  heavens,  look  at 
those  eyes!' 

"Well,  sir,  there  was  all  creation  let  loose  in 
that  boat.  Those  fellows  just  fell  over  each 
other  to  get  at  the  anchor,  and  they  lost  their 
knives  in  the  water  trying  to  cut  the  rope. 
They  pulled  and  cussed  and  shouted,  and  all 
the  time  Lon  Scribner  was  calling  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  a  mile,  'Pull,  pull,  or  we'll  all  be 
killed!' 

"Well,  they  did  pull.   I  never  seed  a  boat  move 


142 

so  fast  before,  and  in  five  minutes  they  landed 
by  a  medder  on  the  east  side,  and  left  the  boat 
there,  and  walked  home.  The  next  morning 
Lon  Scribner  came  over  for  the  wagon,  and  be- 
fore noon  the  newspaper  man  come  over  to  see 
Walker. 

"  'Mr.  Walker,'  says  he,  'there  was  a  terrible 
occurrence  on  the  lake  last  evening.' 

"What's  that?'  says  Walker,  lookin'  sur- 
prised. 

"  'A  monster  of  the  deep,  sir,  pursued  a  party 
of  young  men.' 

'"Hoax,  isn't  it?  said  Walker. 

"  'I  thought  so  myself  at  first,  but  I  have  the 
sworn  statement  of  every  man  in  the  party.' 

"  'What  did  it  look  like? 

"  'They  describe  it,  sir,  as  an  enormous  ser- 
pent, of  horrible  appearance,  fully  fifty  feet  long, 
with  a  head  as  large  as  a  cow,  and  immense, 
fiery  eyes.' 

"  'Well,'  said  Walker,  'I  hope  it  isn't  true. 
It'll  stop  fishin'  and  ruin  my  business  if  it  is, 
but  the  fact  is  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  queer 
things  turned  up  in  the  lake  now  and  then. 
You  know  that  place  where  they've  never  been 
able  to  find  bottom?' 

"  'Yes,'  said   the  newspaper  feller,  anxiously. 

"  'Well,  my  father  always  declared  that  was 
an  underground  outlet  to  Lake  Ontario.' 

"The  newspaper   man   made  a   note  of   that. 


143 

Then  he  went  down  to  the  boathouse  and  looked 
about;  and  you  should  have  seed  the  newspaper 
he  turned  out  two  days  after  that.  There  was  a 
picture  of  a  tremenjous  snake  printed  on  the 
first  page,  and  eight  columns  of  readin'  matter 
about  the  monster  in  Silver  Lake,  with  affer- 
davits  from  ten  or  fifteen  people  who  had  seed 
it.  Well,  sir,  Walker  give  one  glance  at  that 
paper  and  then  he  sent  word  over  to  Perry 
for  a  big  lot  of  provisions  and  rowed  down  the 
lake  himself  and  bought  up  every  rowboat  at  the 
south  end. 

"  'Now,  boys,'  says  he  to  Si  and  me,  when  he 
got  back,  'watch  out  sharp,  the  crowd'll  be  here 
to-morrow.'  An'  it  was.  There's  no  use  makin' 
a  long  story  'bout  the  people,  but  I  never  seed 
the  like  of  'em.  The  population's  growed  in 
forty  years,  and  that  education  business  over 
there  in  the  grove,  and  the  cottages  and  what- 
not brings  a  crowd  here  every  summer  nowa- 
days, but  I  tell  you  they're  just  nothin'  to  the 
slathers  of  people  that  poured  around  this  lake 
for  five  weeks  in  the  summer  of  '55.  They 
come  in  wagons,  they  come  a-foot.  There  was 
single  men  and  women  and  whole  families.  I 
reckon  there  were  500  people  camped  out  every 
clear  night  through  August.  The  roads  all  about 
were  lined  with  teams  askin'  the  way  to  Silver 
Lake,  and  had  they  caught  the  serpent? 

"As  for  Walker,  he  just  tended  hotel   night 


144 

and  day  stiddy.  He  run  his  prices  up  out  of 
sight,  but  it  didn't  make  no  difference.  There 
was  a  crowd  a-beggin'  and  quarrellin'  for 
rooms  all  day  long,  and  as  fer  boats,  they  was 
50  cents  an  hour,  and  even  then  the  crowd 
at  the  boathouse  had  to  draw  lots  fer  next 
chance.  Walker  wasn't  the  only  one,  though, 
that  was  workin'  that  serpent.  The  newspaper 
man  was  nearly  crazy;  along  in  the  spring  the 
Sheriff  had  been  lookin'  fer  him  on  a  judgment, 
but  by  the  middle  of  August  he  had  hired  a 
crowd  of  men  and  bought  two  more  printing 
presses.  Every  other  day  he  run  out  a  sea  ser- 
pent extra,  with  cuts  and  big  headlines.  It 
wasn't  Wyoming  County  alone,  though,  that  was 
broke  up  over  that  serpent.  The  postmaster  at 
Perry  was  about  wild  with  letters  from  every- 
where askin'  was  it  real.  He  got  'em  from  New 
England  and  Pennsylvania,  and  two  from  Ken- 
tucky in  one  day. 

"As  fer  the  serpent,  I  tell  you  we  was  cautious. 
Up  to  the  latter  part  of  August  we  had  let  it  ap- 
pear ten  or  a  dozen  times,  mostly  at  night. 
Twice  the  thing  had  been  seen  in  the  daytime 
by  people  on  the  shore;  somehow  it  happened 
no  one  was  on  the  lake  at  the  time,  and  I  will 
say  that  a  more  lifelike  critter  I  never  see.  I 
didn't  blame  the  fellows  that  walked  around 
and  swore  to  that  snake.  I'd  almost  swore 
myself. 


145 

"Well,  about  the  first  of  September  the  ex- 
citement was  so  great  it  began  to  get  hot.  Over 
in  Perry  they  formed  a  company  with  a  capital 
of  $1,000.  They  called  it  the  Experiment  Com- 
pany, and  the  members  swore  they'd  ketch  that 
snake,  dead  or  alive.  The  president  and  secre- 
tary went  to  Buffalo  to  consult  fishermen  and 
divers,  and  three  days  afterward  they  come 
over  to  Walker's  bringin'  a  tall  feller  with 
chin  whiskers  and  a  harpoon.  Blamed  if  he 
wasn't  a  whaler,  and  the  company  had  im- 
ported him  from  Nantucket.  They  bought  a 
boat  and  that  whaler  sat  there  on  the  lake  all 
day  with  his  harpoon  on  his  arm. 

"The  day  after  that  feller  came  the  crowd 
was  twice  as  big,  just  to  see  the  whaler,  I 
reckon.  Walker  began  to  look  worried.  Well, 
about  1  o'clock  the  next  day  a  Rochester  man 
turned  up  with  a  tremendjous  iron  fish  hook,  an 
old  clothesline  and  two  live  hens. 

"Everybody  laughed  fit  to  kill,  but  he  didn't. 
He  hired  a  boat,  rowed  out  on  the  lake  and 
somehow  drifted  over  east  of  the  inlet.  Then 
he  stuck  one  of  them  squawkin'  chickens  on  his 
hook  and  dropped  it  over.  About  ten  minutes 
after  that  the  feller  give  a  screech,  and  there  he 
was,  a-hangin'  to  the  clothesline,  and  it  was 
pullin'  his  boat  along!  The  effect  of  that  screech 
was  wonderful.  People  on  the  shore  ran  along 
the  bank  and  shouted  like  Indians,  and  all  the 


146 

boats  on  the  lake  rowed  like  mad  fer  the  man 
with  the  hook.  The  whaler  led  the  pack,  stand- 
in'  up  in  the  bow  of  his  boat  with  the  harpoon 
ready.  Just  then  the  fisherman's  boat  slacked 
up,  and  he  stood  up  with  a  piece  of  cord  in  his 
hand.  The  clothesline  had  broken.  I  almost 
fainted,  I  was  so  scared,  but  I  hurried  over  to 
the  hotel  and  found  Walker.  He  was  most 
crazy.  We  went  up  to  the  southwest  room  and 
had  a  hurried  conference.  It  seemed  that  Si, 
seein'  that  fisherman  rather  too  close  to  where 
the  serpent  was,  had  tried  to  shift  the  critter, 
and  must  have  caught  the  hook  by  doing  it. 
The  snake  begun  to  work  badly  just  before  the 
clothesline  broke,  and  I  tell  you  it  didn't  break 
a  minute  too  soon. 

"  'Boys,'  says  Walker,  decidedly,  'it's  gettin' 
too  hot;  the  snake  has  served  its  purpose;  we've 
made  enough  money  to  pull  me  out  of  trouble 
and  do  the  handsome  thing  all  around.  Now 
we'll  end  the  whole  thing.' 

"Si  and  I  agreed.  We  were  ready  enough  to, 
bein'  a  little  scared.  By  good  luck  that  night  was 
stormy.  After  midnight  we  three  went  out  on 
the  lake,  found  the  pulley  connection  on  the 
other  shore,  and  hauled  up  the  serpent.  Sure 
enough  there  was  that  Rochester  feller's  hook 
and  chicken  wedged  round  the  hose  near  the 
critter's  head.  The  hook  had  picked  a  hole  in 
the  leather  and  so  the  serpent  was  damaged 


147 

anyway.  We  towed  it  out  to  the  place  where 
they  have  never  touched  bottom,  and  let  the 
Great  Sea  Serpent  sink  for  the  last  time. 

"The  next  day  I  heard  that  my  father  was 
sick,  so  I  left  in  a  hurry  for  home.  I  found 
father  in  bed. 

"  'Hennery,'  says  he,  when  I  got  to  his  room, 
'I  have  something  to  say  to  you  alone,  my  son.' 
So  the  others  left,  and  says  he,  'Are  you  home 
for  good,  Hennery?' 
"  'I  reckon  so,'  says  I. 
"'Through  with  your  serpent  now?' 
"'What  do   you   mean,   pa?'    I   said,   feeling 
queer. 

"  'Well,  I  saw  the  head  you  was  making  up  in 
the  toolhouse,  my  son,  and  I  thought  mebbe  this 
was  only  a  visit.'  And  sure  enough,  that  old 
feller  had  knowed  the  whole  thing,  and  never 
opened  his  mouth  to  a  soul. 

"  "Hennery,'  he  said  after  a  minute,  'I've  been 
thinkin'  about  you,  my  son.  You  didn't  pay  any 
attention  to  me;  you  left  the  farm  when  I  needed 
you,  and  with  me  sick  here  this  summer,  your 
sister  Maria  has  been  the  only  dependence  of 
the  family.  I  can't  live  long,  Hennery,  and  I've 
made  a  will  givin'  you  the  cottage  and  lot  up  on 
the  road,  and  leavin'  the  house  and  farm  to  your 
sister,  my  son.'  Well,  he  died  a  couple  of  months 
after  that.  Maria  has  the  farm  yet,  and  some- 
how I've" 


148 

The  old  man  stopped  his  story  abruptly.  A 
look  of  intense  annoyance  overspread  his  face. 
"Well,  I  swow,"  he  ejaculated.  "Sure  as  you 
live  that  fish  has  bit  off  bait,  hook  and  all,  and  I 
never  knowed  it."  Then  after  a  moment's 
pause,  he  added,  half  resignedly,  "Well,  that's 
just  like  me;  ever  since  '55  I've  jest  been  agoin' 
to  ketch  a  fish;  never  do." 


Driven  by  a  high  autumn  wind,  the  rain  swept 
down  Fifth  Avenue  in  billowy  sheets,  forcing 
itself  into  doorways  and  crannies,  and  beating 
fiercely  on  every  window-pane  that  faced  the 
east 

Seen  at  long  intervals  through  the  driving  rain, 
a  few  belated  unfortunates  were  struggling  up  or 
down  the  avenue  under  the  scanty  and  pitiful 
shelter  of  umbrellas  tilted  unavailingly  against 
the  storm. 

A  cab  now  and  then  rattled  hurriedly  by,  as 
though  driver  and  horse  were  both  equally  anx- 
ious to  regain  shelter. 

On  such  a  night  the  average  mortal,  however 
restless,  elects  to  stay  at  home,  and  on  this  par- 
ticular evening  nearly  all  New  York  seemed  to 
be  of  one  mind. 

Even  the  clubs  were  well  nigh  deserted,  and 
in  one  of  the  larger  ones  there  were  but  three 


150 

members  in  the  long,  softly  lighted  library.  They 
sat  together  by  a  broad  window,  that  would 
have  commanded  a  fine  view  of  New  York's 
most  famous  street  had  not  the  gusts  of  Novem- 
ber wind  driven  the  rain  along  the  glass  in 
little  rivulets,  which  for  minutes  at  a  time  shut 
out  all  the  outside  world  except  the  prismatic 
glimmer  of  the  electric  lights — steadily  glowing 
along  the  avenue  in  spite  of  wind  and  storm. 

"A  gloomy  night  conduces  to  gloomy  thoughts," 
remarked  the  Doctor  to  his  two  companions. 
"I  attended  the  funeral  of  a  distant  cousin  of 
mine  yesterday  afternoon,  and  I've  been  think- 
ing about  the  poor  fellow  off  and  on  ever  since." 

"Especially  sad  case?"  asked  one  of  the  others, 
sympathetically. 

"No;  it  was  not.  There  were  few  present  at 
the  funeral,  and  few,  whether  present  or  absent, 
to  mourn  that  the  poor  fellow  slept  his  last 
sleep.  He  was  fifty-two  years  old  when  he  died; 
a  quiet,  unobtrusive  old  bachelor;  one  of  New 
York's  great  army  of  hall-bedroom  boarders. 
He  began  life  in  this  city  as  a  bookkeeper,  and 
when  death  came,  twenty-seven  years  later,  he 
had  not  moved.  He  was  a  bookkeeper  still. 

"We  had  nothing  in  common,  and  I  seldom  saw 
him,  but  after  the  services  yesterday  I  began 
to  look  up  his  life,  and  it  has  haunted  me  ever 
since." 

The  Doctor  paused. 


151 

"To  think,"  he  resumed  after  a  moment's  si- 
lence, "that  a  human  being  in  the  midst  of 
civilization  can  pass  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave  without  leaving  behind  even  the  slightest 
impress,  influence  or  incident  is  actually  appall- 
ing. Did  you  ever  trace  an  absolutely  unevent- 
ful life  from  beginning  to  end?"  he  added, 
abruptly. 

"To  answer  for  myself,  no,"  replied  the  young- 
er of  the  Doctor's  two  companions.  "All  of  us 
who  are  normally  constituted  desire  to  leave 
some  imprint  on  the  world,  be  it  large  or  small, 
before  we  depart,  and  perhaps  the  normal  mind 
recoils  from  its  abnormal,  ambitionless  brother." 

"Maybe  you  are  right,"  said  the  Doctor, 
thoughtfully,  looking  out  through  the  blurred 
window-pane.  "The  life  of  Thomas  Dart  was 
as  stagnant  as  a  millpond.  I  cannot  shake  off 
the  memory  of  its  utter  failure. 

"He  came  to  New  York  in  1867.  His  early 
life  had  not  been  phenomenal.  Most  peo- 
ple would  have  called  it  uneventful,  but  youth 
is  always  the  uneventful  period.  His  parents 
were  people  of  position,  education  and  small 
resources.  They  had  sent  Tom  to  college  as  their 
extremest  effort,  and  as  he  manifested  no  incli- 
nation toward  a  profession  his  father  secured  a 
chance  for  him  as  a  bookkeeper  in  the  business 
house  of  John  Morton  &  Co.,  feeling  that  with 
his  home  training,  his  thorough  education  and 


152 

good  sense  the  making  of  his  son's  success- 
ful future  lay  in  his  own  hands. 

"The  boy  had  many  good  qualities.  He  was 
likewise  handicapped  by  some  bad  ones.  He 
was  a  strong,  active,  handsome  fellow,  popular 
with  all  who  knew  him,  possessing  good  habits 
and  an  excellent  mental  equipment.  His  be- 
setting sin,  and  one  which  threatened  fatal  con- 
sequences to  success  in  life,  was  a  tendency  to 
accept  what  the  day  brought  forth,  and  to 
neither  care  nor  plan  for  the  future,  indolently 
content  to  let  events  shape  themselves. 

"Attention  to  his  new  duties  won  the  confi- 
dence of  his  superiors  and  an  occasional  pleas- 
ant word  from  the  head  of  the  firm.  The  first 
year  was  a  busy,  but  not  especially  significant 
one. 

"Like  most  young  men  of  moderate  resource  he 
occupied  a  hall  bedroom  in  a  comfortable  but 
inexpensive  boarding-house,  and  his  evenings 
were  spent  in  careless  but  harmless  ways. 

"Times  flies  in  the  metropolis.  Somehow  it 
seems  to  move  faster  here  than  elsewhere.  The 
country  sleeps  eight  good  hours  of  the  twenty- 
four — sound,  refreshing  sleep,  that  wraps  the 
whole  community  in  its  dreamless  robe,  but  the 
city  never  sleeps.  Its  throb  of  life  is  unceasing. 
The  myriad  lights  that  glow  to  speed  the  set- 
ting sun  are  there  to  greet  his  coming. 

"Two  years  vanished  before  careless  Tom  Dart 


153 

realized  their  passage.  His  position  in  the  book- 
keeper's office  had  but  slightly  improved.  Al- 
though well  liked  and  respected,  he  seemed  to 
lack  that  indefinable  something  which  inspires 
confidence  and  brings  promotion.  A  lack  of 
alertness  or,  better  stated,  perhaps,  a  lack  of 
ambition  that  should  keep  his  mind  ever  fixed 
and  ready  to  go  ahead  at  full  steam  on  demand 
seemed  to  blame  for  his  failure  to  secure  ad- 
vancement. In  business  the  man  who  does  not 
expect  advancement,  and  does  not  act  as  though 
he  expected  it,  seldom  gets  it. 

"And  so  Tom  Dart  settled  slowly  down  into  a 
rut.  His  daily  routine  accomplished,  he  felt 
too  tired  or  too  indolent  to  cultivate  social 
chances.  He  neglected  his  father's  friends,  who 
had  gladly  opened  their  family  circles  to  him, 
and  they  forgot  him.  He  read  in  his  hall  bed- 
room, talked  and  smoked  with  the  man  at  the 
other  end  of  the  hall,  played  whist  at  the  inex- 
pensive club  which  he  had  joined,  and  spent 
an  occasional  evening  at  the  theatre. 

"  'You've  been  with  us  three  years,  haven't  you, 
Dart?*  inquired  Mr.  Morton,  pleasantly,  one 
evening,  as  they  happened  to  leave  the  office 
together. 

"'Yes,  sir.' 

"  "Don't  forget,  young  man,  that  attention  to 
duty  must  be  supplemented  by  a  constant  watch- 
fulness for  chances  to  advance.  Opportunities 


154 

reach  their  fruition  when  they  appear.  Unac- 
cepted they  vanish.' 

Tom  respectfully  assented. 

That  evening  was  one  of  much  self-examina- 
tion, and  he  resolved  to  make  changes  in  his 
conduct. 

"  'I  believe  you  live  in  the  city,  don't  you,  Mr. 
Dart?  inquired  the  cashier  of  Tom,  a  few  days 
afterward,  as  the  business  of  the  day  was  about 
over. 

"  'Yes;  Twenty-eighth  street,  near  Fourth  ave- 
nue,' replied  the  young  bookkeeper. 

"  'Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  take  this  pack- 
age to  Mr.  Morton,  and  deliver  it  to  him  per- 
sonally? He  has  gone  home  without  it,  and  it 
contains  some  papers  which  require  attention 
this  evening.  They  are  too  valuable  to  trust  to 
a  messenger,  and  as  he  lives  on  Fifth  Avenue 
near  you,  it  will  not  be  out  of  your  way  and 
will  greatly  oblige  me.' 

Tom  expressed  his  entire  willingness  to  be  of 
service,  and  half  an  hour  later  rang  the  bell  of 
Mr.  Morton's  handsome  residence. 

"  'Mr.  Morton  isn't  at  home,'  said  the  servant, 
in  answer  to  the  bookkeeper's  inquiry. 

Tom  hesitated.  He  could  not  leave  the  pack- 
age, and  did  not  wish  to  retain  it. 

A  prettily  dressed  young  girl  was  coming 
downstairs  and  had  overheard  his  inquiry. 

"  'My  father  is  not  to  return  until  late,  I  be- 


155 

lieve.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?'  she  asked, 
stepping  forward.  'I  am  Miss  Morton.' 

"  'Thank  you,'  said  Tom,  courteously.  'I  have 
a  valuable  package  from  the  office  for  Mr.  Mor- 
ton, and  was  told  to  deliver  it  to  him  only,  but, 
of  course,  Miss  Morton  is  a  satisfactory  substi- 
tute.' 

"  'A  safe  one,  anyway,'  she  replied,  pleasant- 
ly, taking  the  envelope. 

"Tom  bowed  and  withdrew,  but  his  dreams 
that  night  were  filled  with  pretty  Marie  Morton, 
and  it  was  several  days  before  her  image  faded. 

"Perhaps  good-looking  Tom  Dart  had  remained 
in  Miss  Marie's  mind  also,  for  one  afternoon 
in  the  following  week  Mr.  Morton  stopped  at 
Tom's  desk  and  expressed  his  regret  at  not  see- 
ing him,  adding  a  kindly  invitation  to  call  at  his 
house. 

"The  young  bookkeeper  was  more  than  pleased 
at  the  chance.  Til  go  next  week,'  he  said,  em- 
phatically, to  himself.  But  next  week  came  and 
went  and  Tom  never  made  the  call. 

"  'I  can't  help  it,'  he  said.  'I  couldn't  go  any- 
way. My  evening  clothes  are  worn  out,  and  I'd 
be  out  of  place.  Of  course  Miss  Marie  is  beauti- 
ful and  accomplished,  but  I'd  fall  in  love  with 
her  and  be  miserable.  What  business  have  I, 
Thomas  Dart,  bookkeeper,  inhabiting  one  suit 
of  clothes  and  a  hall  bedroom,  to  think  of  her? 
Mind  your  business,  Tom.  Smoke  your  pipe,  be 
comfortable,  and  stay  where  you  belong.' 


156 

"Occasionally  he  saw  his  parents.  They  were 
older  now,  and  needed  more  attention,  but  his 
visits  were  necessarily  brief.  His  life  in  the 
city  was  monotonous,  but  Tom  enjoyed  it,  and, 
after  all,  he  was  the  most  concerned.  Moreover, 
he  had  a  circle  of  friends.  There  were  the 
Rosenbaums  opposite.  Not  exactly  Tom's  style 
or  class,  if  judged  by  the  old  days,  but,  then,  the 
girls  were  awfully  jolly;  and  Colonel  Taxter, 
who  had  a  bachelor  apartment  on  the  next 
block,  and  the  Connelly's,  just  across  Sixth  Ave- 
nue. Of  course  he  had  friends.  And  between 
them  all  time  ran  tranquilly  away— ran  the  fast- 
er because  there  was  little  to  mark  its  passage. 

"  'Five  years  to-day  since  I  came  here,'  he  re- 
marked, one  morning  at  the  office,  to  the  book- 
keeper next  to  him. 

"  'That  so?    You  ought  to  ask  for  a  raise.' 

"  'I  suppose  I  should,'  rejoined  Tom,  'but  the 
woods  are  full  of  bookkeepers;  they  might 
bounce  me.' 

"  'All  right,'  said  his  neighbor,  cheerfully,  'then 
I'd  move  up  to  your  desk." 

"They  both  laughed  and  resumed  work.  That 
was  all  the  anniversary  brought  to  Tom,  and 
before  he  took  time  to  think  about  it  another 
had  come  and  gone. 

"Curious  how  fast  the  years  sped  away.  Why 
notice  the  passage  of  a  single  paltry  year  in  an 
uneventful  life?  Take  them  in  twos  and  threes 


157 

and  groups.  Take  them  in  their  effects,  for  in 
that  alone  is  their  passage  apparent. 

"The  five  years  of  Dart's  service  became  multi- 
plied by  four. 

"His  parents  were  dead. 

"Mr.  Morton  was  dead.  The  old  firm  was  now 
the  John  Morton  Company.  The  officers  were 
new  men,  and  most  of  the  clerks  were  new  com- 
ers also,  but  half  a  dozen  veterans  held  on. 
Among  these  Thomas  Dart  ranked  high  in  years 
of  service. 

"Mr.  Dart  was  a  middle-aged  man,  fairly  well 
preserved,  but  his  hair  was  gray,  his  brow  a  bit 
wrinkled,  his  form  less  erect.  Life  sentence  to 
hard  living  in  a  boarding-house  had  borne  fruit 
in  slovenly  appearance  and  decreased  attention 
to  habits  of  polite  living.  A  button  off,  collar 
torn,  coat  threadbare  and  worn  far  beyond  its 
natural  life.  Symptoms,  but  unfailing  ones. 

"  'What's  become  of  Dart?'  asked  a  classmate 
at  the  quarter-century  reunion. 

"  'Just  where  he  was  twenty  years  ago,'  an- 
swered another,  'growing  old  and  standing 
still.  The  man  in  the  parable  buried  his  talent. 
Dart  didn't  even  do  that.  He  laid  it  down  just 
where  it  was  given  to  him,  and  the  wind  and 
rain  and  snow  and  sun  beat  on  it,  and  it 
weathered  and  crumbled  and  blew  away.' 

"There  remained  to  Thomas  Dart  the  habits 
of  his  earlier  years.  The  future  with  its  wealth 


158 

of  possibility,  which  is  the  birthright  of  every 
young  man,  was  his  no  longer.  The  expecta- 
tions of  a  home,  a  family  and  a  fair  degree  of 
prosperity,  which  all  men  ought  to  cherish  and 
most  men  realize,  had  long  ago  faded  below  his 
mental  horizon.  Thought,  hope  and  wish  had 
contracted;  habits  narrowed.  The  boarders 
thought  Mr.  Dart  was  prosy.  Only  a  few  more 
years  were  needed  to  make  him  a  slippered, 
white-headed  bore. 

"Why  trace   the  change? 

"The  infinite  possibilities  of  a  human  life  had 
blossomed  and  died.  The  wilted  leaf  of  exist- 
ence alone  remained,  withering  and  useless. 
Why  watch  it  disappear? 


"The  general  manager  came  out  of  his  private 
office  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"  'Mr.  Dunnell,'  he  said,  gravely,  to  the  head 
bookkeeper,  'I  have  sad  news  for  you.  Our  Mr. 
Dart  died  this  morning  at  7  o'clock.' 

"  'I  am  distressed  to  hear  it,  sir.' 

"  'I  knew  you  would  be.  He  was  an  old  and 
trusted  clerk.' 

"The  cashier  joined  the  little  group  that  had 
gathered  at  the  news.  'Dart  came  here  three 
years  after  me,'  he  said,  sadly.  'He  had  twen- 
ty-seven years  of  service  to  his  credit  in  this 
house.  I  have  thirty.' 

"  "With  the  difference,'  said  the  general  man- 


159 

ager,  'that  he  was  always  a  routine  man.  You 
never  were.' 

"  'How  old  was  he?'  asked  a  young  bookkeper. 

"The  cashier  meditated  'Dart  was  not  an  old 
man,'  he  said.  'I  suppose  he  was  about  fifty- 
three.' 

"  'Was  he  married?'  asked  a  new  clerk. 

"  'No;  he  never  seemed  to  have  any  matri- 
monial inclinations.' 

"  'Very  sad,'  commented  the  head  bookkeeper, 
mentally  considering  which  of  the  younger  men 
to  advance  to  Dart's  place.  'I  did  not  know 
he  was  seriously  ill.  He  was  here  last  Tues- 
day. We  had  better  order  flowers,'  he  added, 
'and  appoint  a  committee  to  attend  the  funeral.' 

"  'Certainly,'  said  the  general  manager.  'And, 
Mr.  Dunnell,  I  think  we  won't  fill  Mr.  Dart's 
place  just  now.  We  can  get  on  very  well.  Just 
divide  up  his  work  among  the  others.  He  was 
not  a  necessity.' 

"Two  days  later  a  little  company  gathered  at 
the  funeral.  There  was  not  even  crape  on  the 
door.  The  landlady  objected.  She  said  it  made 
the  house  look  dismal  for  the  other  boarders. 

"Another  day,  and  Thomas  Dart  slept  beside 
his  parents  in  the  inland  city  of  his  birth.  His 
sister  had  come  on  to  be  with  him  at  the  end. 
She  tenderly  gathered  up  her  brother's  few  sim- 
ple belongings  and  transferred  them  to  her  own 
distant  home. 


160 

"That  was  all. 

"Another  life  had  come,  matured  and  vanished 
unnoticed. 

"Seemingly  not  even  an  atom  of  strength  had 
gone  out  of  the  hem  of  the  great  world's  gar- 
ment 

"On  the  mighty  tides  of  sorrow,  joy,  business, 
pleasure  and  suffering  there  was  not  a  ripple 
to  mark  the  passing  of  Thomas  Dart,  dead." 


The  Doctor  paused,  much  affected.  His  two 
friends  made  no  effort  to  break  the  silence. 
Rain  had  ceased  for  the  moment,  and  the  wind 
was  sweeping  down  the  deserted  avenue  with 
redoubled  fury.  The  long  line  of  lights  twinkled 
sharply  beneath  its  influence. 

"That  is  the  life  of  Thomas  Dart  as  he  lived 
it,"  continued  the  Doctor,  quietly.  "No  power 
can  change  it  now,  but  last  night  I  lay  awake 
and  thought  about  him,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  if  he  had  only  done  something,  traded 
horses,  speculated— anything  to  break  his  life- 
time of  monotony— I  could  have  forgiven  him, 
and  so,  for  my  own  satisfaction,  I  constructed 
a  fictitious  Dart;  made  him  speculate — for  spec- 
ulation generally  depends  on  luck,  not  brains. 
I  made  the  fictitious  Dart  succeed  in  life,  and 
yet  so  narrow  is  the  line  between  success  and 
failure  that  the  only  difference  between  Dart, 
failure,  and  Dart,  success,  was  that  I  gave  the 


161 

latter  a  push  at  the  right  moment.  He  merely 
accepted  opportunities  instead  of  declining 
them." 

"Let  us  have  the  fictitious  Dart,  Doctor,"  re- 
marked Bradley.  "You  owe  him  to  us,"  he  add- 
ed, emphatically,  "as  some  compensation  for  the 
gloomy  reality." 

"Fiction  is  a  poor  match  for  truth  in  any  con- 
test," said  the  Doctor,  "but  you  are  welcome  to 
my  successful  Dart.  I  made  the  turning  point 
in  his  life  come  just  after  his  employer  gave 
him  that  kindly  bit  of  advice." 

"  Dart,'  remarked  a  young  broker  who  lived 
on  the  floor  below  him  in  the  commonplace 
uptown  boarding-house,  as  they  sat  at  the  din- 
ner-table together  the  next  evening,  'have  you 
any  money  to  invest? 

'"Mighty  little,  why?  asked  Tom,  with  lan- 
guid interest. 

"  'I  don't  want  to  talk  shop,'  replied  his  friend, 
'and  even  to  a  customer  I  seldom  offer  advice, 
but  as  a  friend  I  want  to  tell  you  there  is  an 
opportunity  just  now  for  money  making  in 
stocks  that  comes  only  once  or  twice  in  ten 
years,  and  I  thought  I  might  do  you  a  service.' 

"  'Of  course,'  continued  the  broker,  as  he  fold- 
ed his  napkin  and  pushed  back  from  the  table, 
at  which  he  and  Tom  alone  remained,  'of  course 
there  never  was  any  speculation  of  any  kind 
that  was  absolutely  safe.  It  would  not  be  spec- 
ulation if  it  was.' 


192 

"In  Tom's  trunk  there  was  an  envelope  con- 
taining $100.  It  represented  his  savings  from 
a  small  salary  with  a  still  smaller  ability  to 
save.  His  inclination  was  to  keep  it  there  and 
take  no  risks,  but  the  advice  of  his  employer 
flashed  across  his  mind.  'My  tendency,'  he  said 
to  himself,  'is  always  to  hang  back  and  I  am 
making  no  progress  in  any  direction.  If  I  lose 
my  $100  I  am  not  vitally  affected.  If  I  make 
money  in  the  transaction  I  may  be  able  to  bet- 
ter myself  materially.' 

"  'If  you  satisfy  me  you  are  right,'  said  Tom, 
aloud,  'I  will  invest  a  small  amount.' 

"Thereupon  his  friend  sketched  the  prevailing 
conditions  in  the  market;  the  rise  and  fall  of 
values  and  their  effect,  especially  upon  one  stock, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  overlooked,  but  was 
now  apparently  on  the  verge  of  a  sharp  upward 
movement. 

"Tom  was  convinced.  The  next  morning  he 
called  at  his  friend's  office,  deposited  with  him 
his  $100,  and  arranged  the  details  of  the  pur- 
chase. 

"He  was  in  a  feverish  condition  that  day,  far 
removed  from  his  usual  careless  state  of  mind, 
and  he  watched  anxiously  for  closing  hour,  and 
the  afternoon  paper  obtainable  with  it.  Turn- 
ing to  the  financial  column  he  saw,  with  burn- 
ing cheeks,  that  his  friend's  predictions  were 
more  than  realized.  There  had  been  a  sharp  ad- 


168 

vance  in  the  market,  and  he,  Thomas  Dart, 
clerk,  by  the  doubling-up  process  his  friend 
recommended,  possessed,  with  principal  and 
profit,  over  $800. 

"  'Well,  Dart,'  his  broker  friend  said  that  even- 
ing as  Tom  greeted  him,  'It's  a  pleasure  to  see 
the  market  come  your  way,  but  I've  got  one 
piece  of  advice  to  give  you  in  sober  earnest. 
Don't  squander  a  cent  and  don't  lose  your  head. 
You  have  made  a  beginning  in  the  way  of  cap- 
ital which  you  can  build  up  further  with  cau- 
tion, but  keep  your  head.' 

"Tom  did  not  go  to  the  club  that  evening. 
He  told  a  friend  who  called  for  him  that  he  had 
a  business  matter  to  attend  to,  the  first  personal 
business  that  had  afflicted  Thomas  Dart  since 
his  arrival  in  the  metropolis. 

"The  result  of  his  consideration  was  to  begin 
a  new  and  cautious  transaction,  but  with  double 
the  amount  of  the  former  one,  which  had  been 
closed. 

"It  so  happened  that  the  moment  was  ripe  for 
the  three  transactions  which  Tom  made  in  the 
ensuing  few  days,  and  within  two  weeks  he  had 
to  his  credit  the  sum  of  $2,000. 

"  'I  am  through,'  he  said,  emphatically,  to  his 
friend. 

"  'And  by  stopping  you  show  more  head  than 
most  men,'  remarked  the  other.  To  know  when 
to  stop,  and  stop  there,  is  half  of  success.' 


164 

"The  two  weeks  that  had  passed  had  been  in- 
tensely anxious  ones  for  Dart,  but  they  had 
worked  a  mighty  change  in  him,  which,  with  the 
success  he  had  attained,  became  almost  a  revolu- 
tion. 

"Tom  felt  like  another  man  himself,  and  the 
change  was  decidedly  noticeable  to  others.  He 
displayed  redoubled  energy  at  the  office,  and 
the  head  bookkeeper  remarked  to  the  cashier 
that  Dart  was  becoming  a  valuable  man.  He 
seemed  to  take  genuine  interest  in  his  work. 

"  'You  surprise  me,'  said  the  other.  'I  always 
liked  Dart,  but  he  appeared  to  me  too  lazy  to 
succeed.' 

"  'He's  all  nerves  and  energy  now,'  rejoined 
the  head  bookkeeper. 

"  'Dart,'  said  the  cashier  a  few  evenings  later, 
as  the  clerks  were  leaving,  'I  wonder  if  I  can 
impose  on  you  for  an  important  errand  uptown. 
You  live  in  the  city,  do  you  not?' 

"  'Yes,  sir;  but  that  would  not  signify.  I 
should  be  at  your  service,  anyway.' 

"  'Thank  you,'  replied  the  cashier,  pleased  at 
his  response,  and  recalling  the  head  bookkeep- 
er's remark.  'I  have  an  exceedingly  valuable 
package  for  Mr.  Morton.  He  has  forgotten  to 
take  it  with  him,  and  must  have  it  to-night.  I 
do  not  dare  to  trust  it  to  a  messenger,  and  you 
can  do  me  a  great  service  by  putting  it  in  his 
hands.' 


165 

"Tom  buttoned  the  precious  envelope  secure- 
ly up  in  his  coat  and  hurried  uptown. 

"  'Perhaps  there  is  an  opportunity  here,'  he 
said,  and,  stopping  at  his  own  room,  which  was 
within  a  few  blocks  of  Mr.  Morton's  Fifth  Ave- 
nue residence,  he  made  himself  thoroughly  pre- 
sentable, and  with  little  delay  rang  the  bell  of 
his  employer's  handsome  house. 

"  'Mr.  Morton  is  not  at  home,'  said  the  ser- 
vant, in  response  to  his  Inquiry. 

"Dart  hesitated.  He  could  not  retain  the  pack- 
age, and  yet  he  surely  could  not  give  it  to  a 
servant 

"A  prettily  dressed  girl  was  descending  the 
stairs  as  Tom  had  made  his  inquiry. 

"  'My  father  is  not  expected  home  until  late,' 
she  said,  coming  forward.  'Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  for  you?  I  am  Miss  Morton.' 

"  'I  have  some  important  papers  from  the 
office  for  Mr.  Morton,  to  be  intrusted  to  no  one 
but  himself.  In  his  absence,  however,  I  am  sure 
Miss  Morton  is  a  satisfactory  substitute.' 

"  'Reliable,  anyway,'  she  answered,  smiling, 
with  the  least  bit  of  admiration  in  her  glance. 
Tom  made  an  attractive  picture  as  he  stood  in 
the  doorway— handsome,  well-dressed  and  well- 
bred. 

"He  placed  the  package  in  Miss  Morton's 
hands,  bowed  courteously  and  was  gone. 

"In  no  such  brief  way,  however,  did  he  dis- 


166 

miss  the  memory  of  Miss  Marie  Morton.  She 
was  the  heroine  of  many  a  daydream  and  the 
inspiration  for  his  new-found  ambitions. 

"  'Who  was  the  young  clerk,  John,  that  called 
here  last  night  with  a  package  for  you?'  asked 
Mrs.  Morton,  at  the  breakfast-table,  the  morn- 
ing after  Dart's  errand.  'Marie  was  quite  im- 
pressed with  his  youth  and  beauty,'  she  added, 
laughingly. 

"  'Potter  or  Fellows,  from  the  cashier's  office, 
I  suppose,'  replied  Mr.  Morton.  'Neither  one  is 
beautiful  nor  remarkable,'  he  added. 

"Miss  Marie  looked  indignant. 

"  'I  said  the  man  was  a  gentleman  and  good 
looking,  that  was  all,'  she  protested,  'and  it's 
true,  whether  it  was  Potter  or  Fellows  or  some- 
body else.' 

"  'Potter  has  red  chin  whiskers,'  continued 
her  father,  with  some  amusement,  'and  Fel- 
lows has  nothing  in  particular  except  a  pair  of 
ears  as  big  as  griddle-cakes.  I  should  not  back 
either  one  of  them  in  a  beauty  show,  but,  then,  a 
man  can't  judge  of  his  own  sex.  Maybe  they 
are  both  beautiful.' 

"The  recollection  of  the  breakfast-table  chat 
crossed  Mr.  Morton's  mind  that  afternoon  at 
the  office. 

"  'Whom  did  you  send  up  to  my  house  last 
evening?'  he  inquired  of  the  cashier. 

"  'Dart,  sir.' 


167 

"  *Dart!'  repeated  Mr.  Morton,  in  surprise.  'I 
did  not  suppose  lie  lingered  long  enough  after 
closing-hour  to  be  available  for  such  an  errand.' 

"  'Bart  is  doing  very  well,  sir,'  replied  the 
cashier.  'The  head  of  his  department  tells  me 
that  he  has  completely  changed  within  the  last 
month,  and  promises  to  be  one  of  his  most  valu- 
able men.' 

"Mr.  Morton  found  opportunity  before  leaving 
to  stop  at  Tom's  desk. 

"  'I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  last  evening, 
Dart,'  he  said,  in  his  kindly  way.  'Mrs.  Mor- 
ton and  my  daughter  will  be  at  home  until  June, 
and  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  call  upon  us.' 

"The  young  bookkeeper  thanked  his  employer 
heartily,  and  decided  to  take  early  advantage 
of  the  invitation. 

"Tom  Dart's  thoughts,  however,  were  not  all 
of  sentiment.  His  capital  was  deposited  to  his 
credit  in  one  of  the  larger  banks,  and  he  was 
seriously  considering  his  next  step. 

"  'This  is  a  matter  of  head,'  he  said  to  him- 
self. 'If  I  make  few  missteps  I  have  the  foun- 
dation of  independence.  I  want  no  more  stocks. 
I  have  had  my  success  there.  The  next  result 
would  be  failure.  I  want  no  schemes.  They  are 
all  right  for  men  without  capital  or  with  a  great 
amount  of  it' 

"By  this  process  of  elimination  he  found  him- 
self reduced  to  real  estate,  and  he  at  length  de- 


168 

cided  to  buy  one  or  two  lots,  build  a  house  and 
sell  it.  Accordingly  his  spare  time  was  spent 
in  searching  for  an  available  and  satisfactory 
site.  This  accomplished,  he  made  his  cash  pur- 
chase the  means  of  obtaining  a  low  price,  bor- 
rowed money  on  mortgages  and  began  the  erec- 
tion of  a  dainty  cottage.  Before  it  was  com- 
pleted he  had  found  a  purchaser,  and  had  hand- 
somely increased  his  capital. 

"This  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  purchase 
two  other  small  pieces  of  property  that  he  had 
noticed  favorably,  and  he  began  the  repetition 
of  his  successful  building  venture. 

"His  personal  life  had  completely  changed. 
Improved  work  at  the  office  had  brought  ad- 
vancement, and  Tom  had  removed  to  an  inex- 
pensive bachelor  apartment,  which  his  mother 
had  aided  him  to  make  homelike  and  attractive. 
The  club  was  forgotten.  Tom  was  a  man  of 
business.  The  effect  was  noticeable  in  his  im- 
proved appearance  and  bearing.  His  manners, 
and  even  his  clothing,  showed  the  change. 

"Twice  Tom  had  called  at  Mr.  Morton's  house. 
He  had  been  most  kindly  received,  and  his  own 
impressions  of  Miss  Morton  had  been  renewed 
and  strengthened,  but  serious  thoughts  in  that 
direction  were  of  course  presumptuous. 

"Time  passes  quickly  in  the  metropolis  and 
five  years  have  gone. 

"Tom  Dart's  capital,  in  spite  of  one  or  two 


169 

reverses,  now  amounted  to  $5,000.  At  the  office 
he  was  assistant  to  the  head  bookkeeper  and 
would  probably  succeed  that  worthy  some  day, 
but  Dart  was  conscious  of  a  growing  discon- 
tent. He  had  demonstrated  his  own  ability  to 
succeed  outside  of  the  routine  of  the  counting- 
room,  and  for  more  than  a  year  he  had  continued 
in  Mr.  Morton's  employ  solely  to  accumulate 
a  sum  of  ready  money  sufficient  to  live  on  for  one 
year  without  employment,  during  which  time 
he  figured  that  he  could  nurse  his  real  estate 
enterprises  into  profitable  and  self-supporting 
realities. 

"Another  potent  cause  of  discontent  came  from 
the  heart.  Wisely  or  unwisely,  he  had  permitted 
himself  to  fall  deeply  in  love  with  his  employ- 
er's daughter.  Unwise  it  undoubtedly  was  if  his 
chances  of  success  were  the  sole  consideration, 
but  this  attachment  had  many  times  formed  a 
welcome  reinforcement  to  Tom's  wearied  ambi- 
tion, and  spurred  him  on  to  renewed  or  increased 
effort. 

"As  an  employe  of  Mr.  Morton,  however,  he 
saw  no  prospect  of  anything  like  actual  equal- 
ity in  spite  of  the  cordial  welcome  he  always  re- 
ceived. He  felt  that  he  must  be  able  to  come 
to  the  house  as  an  outsider,  an  independent  busi- 
ness man,  at  least  fairly  successful,  and  wel- 
come for  his  own  qualities. 

"Matters    were    approaching   a    crisis,    when 


170 

Thomas  Dart  was  summoned  one  morning  in 
June  to  Mr.  Morton's  private  office.  'Mr.  Dart,' 
said  his  employer,  seriously,  'We  are  about  to 
make  a  most  important  and  radical  change  in 
this  business.  I  have  sold  my  interest  to  a 
syndicate  of  business  men  younger  in  years  than 
I,  and  they  are  about  to  form  a  corporation  with 
large  capital  to  conduct  it.  The  details  are  now 
complete,  and  will  take  effect  the  first  of  next 
month.  I  have  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  that  I 
urged  your  appointment  as  head  bookkeeper  with 
advanced  salary,  but  one  of  the  new  proprietors 
has  a  man  for  the  place,  and  my  request  was  not 
granted.  I  wish  to  express  my  own  regard  for 
you  and  my  appreciation  of  your  work.  Your 
present  position  is  doubtless  secure,  but  I  am 
sorry  you  will  obtain  no  advancement.' 

"  'Let  me  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  kind  efforts,' 
said  Tom  earnestly,  'and  your  still  kinder  words, 
but  your  announcement  brings  to  a  point  a  plan 
I  have  been  maturing  for  some  months  and  have 
hesitated  to  carry  out.  I  have  been  fortunate 
enough,  by  profitable  real  estate  investments,  to 
develop  my  savings  into  a  considerable  property. 
I  believe  I  can  make  far  more  by  devoting  my 
time  to  real  estate  enterprises  than  I  can  in  the 
counting-room,  and  therefore,  with  your  retire- 
ment, I  shall  resign  also,  for  that,'  added  Tom, 
skilfully,  'relieves  me  of  my  only  regret.' 

"Mr.  Morton  had  heard  his  employe's  state- 
ment with  much  surprise. 


171 

"  Do  you  own  real  estate  now,'  he  asked,  in- 
credulously, 'or  are  you  about  to  acquire  it? 

"  'I  own  four  houses,  sir,  two  In  Yorkville,  one 
in  the  suburbs  of  Brooklyn,  and  one  in  Orange. 
They  are  valued  at  about  $20,000,  and  are  mort- 
gaged for  $14,000.  I  said  four  houses,'  added 
Tom,  'I  should  say  three,  for  I  think  I  have  sold 
the  Brooklyn  house,  and  as  it  is  empty  I  am  es- 
pecially fortunate.  The  others  are  rented  and 
paying  well.' 

"  'You  have  greatly  surprised  me,  Mr.  Dart,' 
said  his  employer,  rising.  'You  have  proved  to 
me  that  you  possess  qualities  I  did  not  attribute 
to  you,  and  if  I  were  to  remain  in  business  I 
should  make  it  an  object  for  you  to  stay  with 
me  in  a  responsible  position.  As  it  is,  remem- 
ber you  are  always  welcome  socially  at  my 
house.  Mrs.  Morton  and  my  daughter  are  going 
abroad  this  month  for  the  summer,  but  we  shall 
be  at  home  next  winter  as  usual.' 

"Tom's  resolution  was  made  instantly.  'Your 
decision  gives  me  the  chance  for  a  hurried  trip 
to  Europe  myself,  this  summer,'  he  said.  'I 
have  longed  to  go,  and  had  almost  given  up  hope 
of  It' 

"Already  the  evidence  of  Tom's  ability  and 
success  had  made  a  change  in  Mr.  Morton's  man- 
ner and  attitude  toward  his  whilom  employe. 
'Do  you  really  propose  to  go?'  he  inquired. 

"  'I  do  indeed,  sir.' 


172 

"  'When? 

"  'Some  time  this  month,'  hazarded  Tom,  not 
deeming  it  necessary  to  explain  that  he  must 
first  learn  when  and  by  what  line  Mrs.  Morton 
and  Miss  Marie  were  to  sail. 

"  'My  family  go  over  alone,'  continued  Mr. 
Morton,  thoughtfully,  'for  I  shall  be  detained 
here  another  month,  and  am  to  meet  them  in 
Paris  in  August.  I  have  worried  somewhat  at 
their  crossing  unattended.  I  wonder  if  you  could 
not  arrange  as  a  particular  favor  to  take  the 
same  steamer  and  go  over  with  them?' 

"Tom  Dart  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  'I 
should  be  delighted  to  make  the  passage  in  their 
company,  Mr.  Morton,'  he  said,  'and  I  am  still 
more  pleased  to  be  able  to  serve  you,' 

"And  so  it  happened  that  when  a  certain 
Cunard  steamer  sailed  from  New- York  in  late 
June,  1873,  it  bore  among  its  passengers  Mrs. 
Morton,  Miss  Marie  Morton  and  Mr.  Thomas 
Dart. 

"Miss  Morton's  attitude  toward  the  devoted 
and  good-looking  young  man  in  whose  care  she 
and  her  mother  had  been  placed  was  that  of  a 
friend.  Mrs.  Morton  seemed  unable  to  forget 
that  Mr.  Dart  was,  or  had  long  been,  a  book- 
keeper in  her  husband's  employ,  and  though 
kindly  and  courteous,  she  permitted  no  approach 
to  intimacy.  It  was  different  with  Miss  Marie. 
She  was  a  bright,  good-looking  and  singularly 


173 

unaffected  girl,  and  Tom  had  always  been  a 
favorite  from  their  first  meeting.  She  now  found 
him  a  delightful  companion.  He  seemed  to  think 
of  her  comfort  only,  and  was  devotedly,  but  not 
obtrusively  attentive. 

"The  voyage  over  was  not  eventful,  but  Tom 
would  not  have  rendered  that  verdict.  He 
planned  after  landing  to  devote  a  few  weeks  to 
a  hurried  trip  through  England  and  Scotland 
and  then  to  return  to  America. 

"Reluctant,  however,  to  part  with  the  Mortons, 
he  decided  at  Mrs.  Morton's  suggestion,  to  re- 
main with  them  during  their  stay  in  London. 

"The  elder  lady's  motive  was  a  double  one. 
She  had  early  discovered  that  the  young  book- 
keeper's attentions  were  too  earnest  and  continu- 
ous to  be  a  mere  matter  of  duty.  She  also 
thought  she  saw  some  encouragement  in  her 
daughter's  manner  and  actions,  and  the  latter 
impression  was  a  source  of  much  uneasiness  and 
anxiety.  Mrs.  Morton  had  her  own  plans  for 
her  daughter,  and  they  did  not  include  the  young 
bookkeeper.  Her  first  idea  was  to  part  company 
with  Tom  at  Liverpool,  and  so  decisively  that 
he  would  not  be  seen  again  during  the  trip,  but 
the  approach  to  a  strange  land  brought  with  it 
a  dread  of  travelling  unattended,  and  she  was 
compelled  to  admit  that  Tom  was  a  model  trav- 
eller. She  concluded,  moreover,  that  It  would 
be  better  to  encourage  his  presence  with  them 


174 

for  a  few  days  longer,  merely  to  let  the  cruel 
separation  which  wealth  and  position  enforce 
perform  its  blighting  task.  The  formalities'  that 
vanish  on  shipboard  quickly  reappear  on  land. 
Marie  would  see  the  wide  gulf  between  herself 
and  Mr.  Dart,  and  he  would  perceive  the  folly  of 
aspiring  to  the  hand  of  his  employer's  daughter. 
Accordingly  on  arriving  in  London  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton chose  the  most  expensive  accommodations, 
determined  to  set  a  pace  which  her  husband's 
altogether  too  gentlemanly  clerk  could  not  equal. 

"By  a  kindly  good  fortune,  however,  Tom's 
Brooklyn  real  estate  transaction  had  been  cleared 
up  profitably  before  he  left  New-York.  He  was, 
therefore,  well  supplied  with  money,  and  Mrs. 
Morton  was  surpried  and  annoyed  to  find  her 
escort  retaining  quarters  fully  equal  to  hers,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  instead  of  being  over- 
whelmed by  the  usages  of  polite  society  when 
politest,  Tom  Dart  was  so  well-bred  and  fault- 
lessly dressed  that  he  made  a  far  more  attract- 
ive appearance  than  most  of  the  fashionable 
young  Americans  whom  they  met. 

"All  of  which  was  quite  unimportant  to  Tom. 
He  was  watchful  of  appearances  and  determined 
to  lose  nothing  on  that  score,  but  beyond  that 
Marie  was  his  only  thought,  and  he  contrived 
innumerable  little  excursions  and  trips  that 
would  give  him  more  of  her  society.  To  her 
mother's  annoyance  and  increasing  alarm,  Miss 


175 

Marie  seemed  to  prefer  Tom  and  his  daily  plans 
to  the  elder  lady's  more  fashionable  programmes. 

"The  last  day  of  their  first  week  in  London 
was  marked  by  an  incident  that  intensified  Mrs. 
Morton's  annoyance.  A  party  of  wealthy  and 
exclusiveBostonians  had  just  arrived.  Tom  was 
now  so  dangerous  that  he  must  be  disposed  of, 
for  her  theories  were  evidently  all  wrong,  and 
she  merely  awaited  the  arrival  of  her  friends  to 
form  a  convenient  pretext  for  disposing  of  her 
escort;  but  to  Mrs.  Morton's  disgust  two  mem- 
bers of  the  party  proved  to  be  college  friends 
of  Tom's,  and  greeted  him  with  delight. 

"That  was  the  last  and  most  aggravating  an- 
noyance, and  she  decided  to  end  it  promptly. 

"  'What  are  your  plans,  Mr.  Dart?'  she  asked 
pleasantly  that  evening. 

"  'For  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Morton?' 

"  'Well,  no,  In  general,  now  that  you  have 
located  us  so  pleasantly  in  London.' 

"  'Oh,  I  have  no  particular  plans.  Perhaps  I 
may  go  up  to  the  Scotch  lakes  in  a  week  or  ten 
days.' 

"  'I  was  beginning  to  fear,  Mr.  Dart,'  continued 
Mrs.  Morton,  in  especially  pleasant  tones,  'that 
we  were  imposing  on  your  kindness,  and  keeping 
you  in  London  against  your  own  inclination. 
Now  that  the  Rhodes  are  here,  we  shall  have  an 
increasing  number  of  friends.  So  pray  feel  at 
liberty  to  leave  us  at  any  moment  you  please. 


178 

You  have  been  so  attentive  to  our  wants,  and 
have  been  such  a  useful  escort,  especially  to  my 
daughter,  that  we  are  both  more  than  grateful. 
The  financial  part  can  be  reimbursed  readily, 
the  personal  part  cannot,  and  I  can  only  thank 
you  most  earnestly.'  The  words  and  tone  were 
studiedly  courteous,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  inference. 

"Tom  said  nothing.  He  bowed  coldly  and 
withdrew.  She  had  made  hideously  plain  at 
length  the  financial  distance  that  separated  him, 
Thomas  Dart,  from  the  girl  he  loved. 

"Tom's  best  efforts  at  the  theatre  that  evening, 
were  not  satisfactory  to  Miss  Marie. 

"  'What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Dart?'  she  in- 
quired during  the  intermission,  as  Tom  seemed 
unable  to  recall  the  principal  character  in  the 
first  act.  'Are  you  sick,  or  bored?'  she  asked. 

"  'Neither,  Miss  Morton.    I  am  sad.' 

"  "That  is  worse  than  either  of  my  suggestions. 
Whence  does  it  arise?  Indigestion?' 

"  'I  am  going  back  to  the  United  States  day 
after  to-morrow,'  said  Dart  quietly. 

"Marie's  cheek  paled  slightly. 

"  'Why  do  you  go?'  she  asked  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

"  'One  reason  is  because  my  business  needs 
me.' 

"  'Then  that  is  only  one  reason  of  several, 
Mr.  Dart?'  The  resumption  of  the  play  pre- 


177 

vented  further  conversation.  Miss  Morton  heard 
as  little  of  the  dialogue  of  the  second  act  as  her 
companion  did  of  the  first. 

"  1  want  to  know  the  other  reasons,'  she  whis- 
pered as  Dart  helped  the  two  ladies  into  their 
carriage  after  the  play  was  over. 

"  Tm  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you,'  replied  Tom 
sadly. 

"The  next  day  he  announced  to  Mrs.  Morton 
that  a  business  matter  of  importance  recalled 
him  to  America;  that  he  had  abandoned  his  trip 
to  Scotland  in  consequence,  and  would  catch 
the  earliest  steamer. 

"The  farewell  with  Marie  was  not  so  easily 
accomplished.  Her  usual  unaffected  cordiality 
was  gone,  and  Tom  found  a  quiet,  well-bred, 
self-possessed  young  woman.  His  own  high- 
spirited  nature  responded  to  the  chill  of  the  part- 
ing with  an  added  chill,  and  their  frank  and 
pleasant  intercourse  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
become  all  constraint. 

"The  last  thanks  were  spoken  by  mother  and 
daughter,  the  last  farewell  said.  Tom  bowed 
himself  out  of  their  parlor  and  started  aimlessly 
down  the  corridor. 

"  'Mr.  Dart,'  said  a  familiar  voice. 

"He  turned  hastily. 

"  'We  expect  you  to  call  upon  us  after  we  re- 
turn to  New-York.  Will  you  not? 

It  had  not  escaped  Dart  that  Mrs.  Morton  had 


178 

omitted  the  usual  invitation.  He  felt  that  the 
omission  was  intentional,  as,  indeed,  it  was. 

"  *Do  you  wish  me  to  come,  Miss  Morton?' 
he  asked. 

"  'Oh,  I  am  not  particular,'  she  said  demurely. 

"  'Then  why  do  you  invite  me?' 

"  'Papa  will  be  glad  to  see  you.' 

"Tom  was  very  close  to  her.  Somehow  the  con- 
straint was  all  gone. 

"  'Is  he  the  only  one  who  would  welcome  me, 
Miss  Morton?  After  the  pleasant  hours  we  have 
spent  together  on  sea  and  land,  I  had  hoped 
that — that  we  were  at  least  good  friends.' 

"  'I  hope  we  are  Mr.  Dart.' 

"  'Certainly  I  shall  never  call  at  your  home 
again,  Miss  Morton,'  said  Tom  gravely,  'unless 
your  invitation  represents  your  own  wish  that 
I  should  come.' 

The  color  suddenly  rushed  to  Marie's  face. 

"  'Please  come,'  she  said  half  glancing  at  the 
handsome  young  fellow  before  her,  'and  besides 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you  when  you  call.' 

"  'Can't  you  say  it  now?  asked  Tom,  eagerly. 

"  'Not  possibly." 

"  'Is  it  important?' 

"Marie  pulled  a  leaf  or  two  out  of  the  rose 
she  was  wearing,  and  meditated.  'That  de- 
pends on  circumstances,  Mr.  Dart,  and  possibly 
I  might  not  tell  you  after  all.' 

"  'Don't  say  that,'  pleaded  Tom. 


179 

"  "Then  you  must  promise  to  call,' 

"  'Indeed  I  do  promise.' 

"  There  is  one  other  condition,  Mr.  Dart,'  she 
added  severely. 

"  'I  agree  in  advance,  Miss  Morton.' 

"  'You  must  be  exceedingly  nice,'  and  with  a 
smile  that  Tom  cherished  all  the  way  across  the 
Atlantic,  and  she  was  gone. 

"The  voyage  allowed  Tom  Dart  plenty  of  time 
to  consider  his  affairs  in  every  light,  and  lay  out 
a  plan  of  action. 

"There  was  a  strong  inclination  at  times  tow- 
ard the  old,  indolent,  careless  way  of  life,  but 
the  incentive  to  action  was  so  great  that  Tom 
looked  eagerly  forward  to  an  energetic  and  sen- 
sible campaign.  He  decided  to  get  down  to  busi- 
ness without  a  day's  delay,  in  order  to  have  defi- 
nite plans  by  early  fall.  The  Mortons  were  to 
return  in  September,  and  Tom  was  especially 
anxious  to  have  some  results  secured  by  that 
time,  for  he  early  decided  that  he  would  make 
his  feelings  known  to  Miss  Marie  at  the  first 
opportunity.  With  these  resolutions  uppermost 
Tom  Dart,  bronzed,  hearty  and  well  dressed,  left 
the  steamer  and  plunged  into  the  busy  throng  of 
commercial  New  York. 

"The  three  months  that  followed  seemed  to 
pass  with  more  than  ordinary  rapidity,  and  Tom 
had  scarcely  awakened  to  the  fact  that  autumn 
had  come  when  he  met  Miss  Morton  on  Broad- 
way one  afternoon  in  late  September. 


180 

"  'You  were  actually  rushing  by  without  see- 
ing me  at  all,'  she  said,  indignantly,  as  Tom 
wheeled  joyously  around  and  joined  her. 

"  'Impossible,'  he  said,  solemnly.  'I  should 
have  seen  you,  or  known  you  were  near,  even  if 
I  were  two  blocks  away.' 

'"Nonsense,  Mr.  Dart.  Friends  don't  have 
affinities  like  that.  You  know  we  agreed  in  Lon- 
don that  we  actually  were  friends,' 

"  'A  knowledge,  Miss  Morton,  that  has  been 
pleasanter  to  me  than  any  other  recollection  of 
our  trip.' 

"  'We  only  returned  last  week,'  continued 
Marie,  'and  already  papa  is  deep  in  some  new 
business  plans.  We  thought  he  had  retired  per- 
manently, but  he  says  he  must  have  occupation.' 

"The  short  walk  to  the  Morton  residence  was 
covered  all  too  soon  for  Tom,  and  he  lingered 
at  the  steps. 

"  Tlease  come  in  and  dine  with  us,  Mr.  Dart,' 
said  Marie,  heartily.  'Mamma  is  in  Stockbridge 
and  papa  and  I  are  alone.  Moreover,  I  am  sure 
he  wants  to  see  you,  for  yesterday  he  inquired 
your  address.' 

"Thus  urged,  Tom  accepted,  and  was  heartily 
welcomed  by  Mr.  Morton,  who  invited  him  to 
his  library  when  dinner  was  over. 

"  The  fact  is,  Dart,'  he  remarked  as  he  lighted 
a  cigar,  'I  cannot  keep  out  of  active  work  of  one 
kind  or  another,  and  several  of  us  have  lately 


181 

organized  a  company  to  handle  trust  money  and 
real  estate.  I  thought  immediately  of  you  in 
connection  with  it.  How  are  you  progressing?' 

"Tom  explained  his  affairs,  and  an  hour  later, 
when  he  arose  to  go,  he  had  been  offered  and  had 
accepted  an  official  position  in  the  new  company 
at  an  ample  salary. 

"  'I  presume  my  daughter  thinks  I  have  stolen 
her  guest,'  said  Mr.  Morton,  smiling,  as  Tom  bid 
him  good  night.  'You  will  find  her  in  the  rear 
parlor,  if  you  do  not  mind  making  iny  apologies.' 
Tom  was  entirely  willing.  He  had  some  re- 
marks of  his  own  to  make. 

"The  door  of  the  back  parlor  was  partly  open, 
the  light  burned  low,  and  Marie  was  playing 
softly  on  the  piano. 

"She  turned  as  Tom  entered.  Time  is  almost 
up,  Mr.  Dan,'  she  said. 

"Tom  began  his  apologies. 

"  'Oh,  you  need  not  apologize,'  she  interrupted. 
'To  a  man  the  plea  of  business  is  ever  new  and 
ever  unanswerable.  I  know  all  about  it.  A 
man  meets  another  man,  and  they  smoke,  tell 
jokes  and  completely  forget  engagements  or 
duties,  and  when  confronted  by  their  short- 
comings they  look  solemn  and  fall  back  on  "busi- 
ness," for  business  covereth  all  things.  Men, 
Mr.  Dart,  are  one  and  all  deceitful  creatures, 
and,  also,  you  are  no  better  than  your  sex.' 
Which  freed  Marie's  mind  and  she  resumed  play- 
Ing. 


182 

"Tom  was  standing  a  few  feet  from  the  piano. 
He  had  never  seen  her  look  so  attractive.  A  gown 
of  some  soft,  clinging  silk  was  wondrously  be- 
coming to  her  slender,  girlish  figure,  dark  hair 
and  black  eyes.  It  was  almost  joy  enough  to  be 
alone  with  her  in  the  quiet  lamp-lighted  room, 
even  though  her  greeting  was  a  lecture. 

"  'Miss  Morton,'  said  Tom,  impetuously,  *your 
father  and  I  have  been  talking  business,  and  I 
have  this  evening  reached  conclusions  that  will 
affect  my  whole  future  life,  but  I  can  truthfully 
tell  you  that  there  was  not  a  moment  of  the  whole 
time  when  I  would  not  have  hurried  to  you,  had 
I  consulted  my  own  inclinations.' 

"Tom's  face  was  very  near  her  as  he  leaned 
on  the  piano. 

"The  conversation  had  grown  suddenly  per- 
sonal. Miss  Morton  made  no  reply.  Her  hands 
wandered  gently  over  the  keys  in  Rubinstein's 
Melodie. 

"  Til  forgive  you,'  she  said,  looking  up  brightly 
a  few  moments  later. 

"  'Turn  up  the  light,  Mr.  Dart,  and  be  seated. 
I  have  some  photographs  to  show  you.' 

"Tom  did  not  move. 

"  'You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Miss  Morton,' 
he  said. 

"  'I  have? 

"  'Yes.  Don't  you  recall  our  parting  in  Lon- 
don?' 


188 

"  'Indeed  I  do,  and  I  recall  the  condition  at- 
tached to  my  remark.' 

"  'Have  I  not  complied  with  it?'  asked  Tom- 
anxiously. 

"Marie  arose  with  mock  solemnity. 

"  'How  can  you  ask  such  a  question,'  she  in- 
quired, 'when  I  have  actually  been  obliged  to 
lecture  you  for  neglect?' 

"  'And  you  won't  tell  me,  Miss  Morton?' 

"  'Not  to-night.' 

"  'Suppose  I  call  soon  again,  on  purpose  for  it,' 
suggested  the  artful  Dart. 

"  'It  might  not  do  any  good.' 

'"Why?' 

"  'I  may  never  tell  you.' 

"  'Miss  Morton,'  said  Tom,  impulsively,  'I  have 
something  to  say  to  you.  Unlike  your  "some- 
thing," it  cannot  wait.  It  may  not  interest  you, 
but  it  is  all  important  to  me. 

"  'Ever  since  that  night  when  I  called  here  to 
see  your  father,  and  Providence  brought  you 
instead,  you  have  been  my  ideal,  my  hope,  my 
ambition.  All  my  efforts  have  been  but  to  de- 
serve you.' 

"Marie  stood  by  the  piano  with  hands  clasped 
and  eyes  downcast. 

"Tom  was  very  close  to  her. 

"  'Ever  since  that  night  in  the  hall,'  he  con- 
tinued gently,  'I  have  loved  you,  and  when  I 
knew  you  better  and  saw  you  daily  I  loved  you 


184 

more  and  more  for  your  own  good  qualities.  As 
for  myself,  Marie,  I'm  only  an  ordinary  young 
fellow,  who  has  made  a  little  place  for  himself 
in  the  world,  and  for  whom  all  of  life  and  happi- 
ness depend  on  your  loving  him,  though  only  a 
little,  in  return.' 

"  'I  don't  think  you  are  just  to  yourself,  Mr. 
Dart,'  said  Marie,  without  looking  up. 

"'Why?' 

"  'You  are  not  an  "ordinary  young  fellow," 
judged  by  my  standard,'  and  then  raising  her 
dark  eyes  to  Tom's  with  a  woman's  first  spoken 
love  in  their  depths  she  whispered,  'for  you  are 
the  dearest  man  in  the  world  to  me.' 

"That  was  enough  for  Tom. 

"  'What  were  you  going  to  say  to  me,  Marie?' 
he  asked  half  an  hour  later.  'Have  I  not  the 
right  to  hear  now?' 

"  'I  said  I  might  never  tell  you,'  she  said, 
'and  that  it  all  depended  on  circumstances,  any- 
way, didn't  17 

"  'You  did,  and  worried  me  all  the  way  across 
the  Atlantic.' 

"Marie  laughed.  'I've  said  it  already,'  she  said, 
blushing.  'You  see  I  thought  you  liked  me,  and 
I  knew  I  liked  you,  and  so  under  proper  circum- 
stances'—Marie iid  her  face  on  Tom's  shoulder 
—'what  I  had  to  say  was— yes.' 

"That  was  twenty  years  ago,"  concluded  the 
Doctor,  reflectively.  "The  middle-aged  hand- 


185 

some,  prosperous  New  Yorker  whom  you  passed 
at  Twenty-third  street  and  Fifth  avenue  this 
afternoon  was  Thomas  Dart,  man  of  wealth,  po- 
sition and  influence  In  this  big  community.  The 
well-built  young  fellow  with  him  was  his  oldest 
son." 

The  Doctor  paused,  and  lighted  the  cigar  which, 
neglected,  had  gone  out. 

"Your  theoretical  Dart,  Doctor,"  said  Bradley, 
heartily,  "is  a  great  success.  We  shall  all  sleep 
the  better  for  him." 

"There  is  only  one  trouble  with  Dart,  happy, 
prosperous  and  married,"  rejoined  his  friend 
sadly. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Bradley. 

The  Doctor  arose,  buttoned  up  his  coat  and 
pushed  back  his  chair. 

"The  story  is  totally  false,"  he  said. 


